Sucker Punch
by riptey
Summary: COMPLETE - Sometimes you want to punch somebody. Other times, you're the one getting hit. - After an unfortunate bar fight, Hermione Granger accidentally invites Draco Malfoy to crash on her couch indefinitely, but at least she's got his wand. D/Hr, EWE
1. Forensics

Sucker Punch

by riptey

**Full Summary:** After an unfortunate bar fight, Hermione Granger accidentally invites Draco Malfoy to crash on her couch indefinitely, but at least she's got his wand. She's struggling to hang onto her sanity and pleasant disposition, despite those nasty thoughts that keep popping into her head, but he's already given up on his.

Meanwhile, the rest of the wizarding world is investigating his mysterious disappearance, he's inventing his own whole new reality from the comfort of Hermione's bed (not that she wants him there), the gravity's broken in the kitchen, Harry and Ginny won't stop trying to get her back together with Ron, Ron's sleeping with Lavender, Hermione wants to lay him out, Astoria Greengrass is mourning her not-so-dead fiancé, and everyone's so buried in lies that they might as well just forget about the whole concept of truth.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Forensics**

Was it really possible for hair dryers to shoot ions at your head? If so, did they really do anything?

Moreover, what kind of ions were they? Would any old sort do, or were they only ions of a certain element, say carbon? Hermione Granger was pretty sure that there were some ions she'd be willing to shoot at her head and others that she'd rather not. She kept using her ceramic ionic hairdryer anyway, but that didn't stop her from being skeptical about it. She didn't believe in unspecified "ions," she didn't believe that herbal supplements really did anything, she didn't believe in God, and she didn't believe that people could change. She didn't do things unless she had a logical reason. For example, that night, she was drying her hair because she was going on a date.

It was her first date since Ron Weasley, a full six months after they'd broken up. His first date had been a long time ago, and if she cared at all, it was only because she felt it was highly disrespectful to begin sleeping with other women less than a month after their breakup.

She should have known it would be like that, and she was angry with herself, but not as angry as she was with him. She was having cruel fantasies that surprised her late at night: Ron getting hit by a bus, or maybe Ron vomiting slugs for a whole month. There were many, but none resulted in her ex-boyfriend's death. He just got hurt because karma wasn't on his side, except she didn't believe in karma, either.

She had one more fantasy, and it was her favorite, but she was doing her best not to think about it, because it just wasn't something that Hermione Granger should be imagining. Since karma didn't exist, she wanted to take matters into her own hands and punch Ron right in the mouth. She wanted to see that shocked look on his face when he realised how horrible he'd been to her, taking her for granted and using her for her compassion because he couldn't take care of himself. Horrible enough to make the pristine Hermione Granger raise a hand in anger against another human being, something she hadn't done since her third year. Draco Malfoy had it coming, and now, so did Ron. She wasn't all that successful in keeping herself from thinking about it, though. The image just kept flashing into her brain.

Hermione Granger, like an action movie heroine, drawing back her fist so gracefully. Ron's jaw dropping in slow motion as he realised what she was about to do just seconds too late. Her knuckles would crash into his teeth as a victorious howl tore out of her mouth. It would hurt her hand, but it would hurt his face more. She'd see that bright-red line of movie blood running elegantly down his chin, and he'd fall to his knees. And then he'd apologize.

Looking back at her hair dryer, she tried to get her mind back on ions – she'd already promised herself that she wasn't going to think about Ron tonight. She had a date with a perfectly nice, intelligent, reasonably attractive man she'd met at the Ministry. His name was Nigel, and he was twenty-six – three years older than Hermione – but she had always felt that she'd get along better with an older man. Men her age just didn't seem to have their heads on straight. Most importantly, this man was safe. He was mature, responsible, and not drowning in the world's worst inferiority complex. That would be impossible: you see, anyone except Ron could only get so far as the world's second-worst inferiority complex.

Once her hair was finished, Hermione turned her music up a little louder, because she could hear a fight breaking out in the street below her flat. That tended to happen when someone lived above a pub in Muggle London. The weeknights weren't so bad, but every weekend, somebody had to take things outside. Hermione liked to enjoy herself at bars and clubs occasionally, just like any other woman her age, but she didn't have to get smashed to have a good time. Even with her radio on full blast, though, she could still hear the commotion outside – this one sounded a lot worse than usual. She looked out her bedroom window, where she had a view of the alley behind the bar, and apparently some poor guy had pissed off the wrong people. It was four against one, with a very lean, almost lanky man getting pounded mercilessly by a group of shorter but much more muscular young men.

She never intervened with the fights downstairs, but this one was horrifying. The slender man was on the ground, and he looked like he may have been unconscious, but it wasn't over. Three of the attackers had stepped back to watch, but the fourth was still on top of his opponent. Streams of blood ran into the gutter, and Hermione knew she had to do something immediately. She closed the blinds and poked her wand through them inconspicuously, aiming for the man still fighting, and Confounded him. She drew her wand back quickly and hid behind the wall next to her window, only daring to look back outside after a few minutes. The Muggle she'd Confounded was stumbling off down the street, and his friends were trying to hold him up, casting a few confused looks back at the man on the pavement – who wasn't moving. Hermione watched the group reach the end of the block and turn, and then she ran downstairs and out the back door of the building.

When she stepped outside, she realised that for once, she hadn't planned this very carefully. She was wearing a slinky black dress with impractical shoes, and she had her wand in a secret pocket of her dress but couldn't risk using it outside in Muggle London. The man was a Muggle anyway, though, so she'd just check his vitals and then call an ambulance. The rest of the pub-goers seemed to have ambled back inside now that the fight was over, so the alley was deserted.

She hurried over to the man on the ground and crouched down next to him. His hair was matted with blood, and his face was completely obscured with the beginnings of bruising, swelling, and bleeding. It didn't look like it did in the movies, though, and it didn't look like it did in the War. The thing about blood was that in Hermione's experience, it was always accompanied by other circumstances. It was either on her or someone she cared about deeply, and either way she had to block out the sight and do something about it immediately. This was a stranger, and it was like a filter had been lifted over her eyes. She could see the slimy red liquid as an entity within itself, and she reached out her hand to touch the man's cheek. On her fingers it was brown-red and filmy, and she lifted her hand to her face and caught the smell, and suddenly she thought she was going to be sick.

She hauled herself onto her feet and stumbled back a few metres, holding her hand as far away from her body as she could. Finally, the nausea passed, and she wiped her fingers off on the cement as she crouched back down near the stranger. She took a few calming breaths and reached the same hand out to feel for a pulse, which was still relatively strong. She began to search the man's pockets for some form of identification, but there wasn't any. There was something else, though.

She felt the end of a small, wooden stick poking out of the man's trouser pocket and recognized it instantly. So the man was a wizard. She couldn't fathom why he'd gotten into a bar fight with a bunch of Muggles, and she was especially confused about why he hadn't used his wand to defend himself. Sure, it would've been a headache for the Ministry if he'd performed magic on them, but it had clearly been a life-or-death situation. Now, Hermione would have to figure out some way to get him to St. Mungo's, preferably without using her wand. She leaned back on her heels and began to think.

"They gone?" asked a weak voice from below her, and she looked down to see that the man had opened his eyes.

"Yes, they're gone," she said, patting the man's shoulder. "Do you know where you are?"

The man turned his head and spat out a mouthful of blood. "Duke of York Street," he said, and she was both relieved and surprised to note that he was coherent.

"Yes, good, that's right. What is your name?"

"Andrew Jones." He spat out more blood, but there was a lot less this time. She crouched down lower, right next to his shoulder.

"Why didn't you use your wand?" she whispered. His head whipped around to look her in the face. He gave a loud cry of pain at the sudden motion, and then he gave an even louder cry of surprise, and then he began to try and scoot himself away from her across the pavement. All the while he was still yelling and carrying on in a hoarse voice.

"Oh, fuck, no, fuck! Not you! Fuck!" He tried to reach his hand into his wand pocket, and she dove to stop him.

"Andrew, no! You're way too weak to do that right now – you could kill yourself!" She managed to wrestle his wand out of his hand and pocket it next to her own, which wasn't overly difficult due to his weakened state. His eyes grew angry, and he looked at her like she was the scum of the Earth, and suddenly something registered in the back of her mind. She knew this man. She lifted up a corner of his shirt to wipe at his face, and he didn't try to stop her. She only needed to wipe off the area around his eyes before she figured out who it was and yanked her hand away.

"Malfoy!"

He spat out more blood and looked at her contemptuously. "Hi, Granger," he said. "Going to finish me off?"

She stood up and crossed her arms across her chest. "I don't have time," she informed him. How utterly arrogant of him, to think that she still cared enough to go to Azkaban for his murder. "Maybe someone else will," she added. Then, she turned around and walked back to up her flat, keeping his wand just in case.

Well, walking back to the flat wasn't as smooth a process as the previous sentence may have implied. Hermione dragged her feet, weighed down with guilt. She'd just walked away from a dying man. It didn't matter who it was – that was just simply the wrong thing to do. On the other hand, Malfoy got himself into this situation, and he deserved it, and he hadn't asked for her help. He might not even need it. Yes, there was no obligation for Hermione to assist him. She'd just finish getting ready so she wouldn't be late to her date. When she arrived back in her bedroom, she peeked out the window again, and Malfoy was in the exact same spot on the ground. He placed a hand to his forehead and made a halfhearted attempt at getting up, but it was unsuccessful, and he laid his head back down on the pavement, presumably to wait for death. But Hermione didn't care.

Oh, God, that was such a lie. She was freaking out. She hadn't seen Malfoy since the War, but she knew his story. She knew how he'd been coerced into doing what he'd done, and she knew what his mother did for Harry, and whether she thought he was a prick or not, he didn't deserve to die alone in an alley behind a pub. She turned away from the window, and then she looked back. There was nothing for it: she'd have to go and help him. This time, she changed into flat shoes and threw a jacket over her shoulders, and then she marched back outside to stand over Malfoy's prone form.

"Oh, come on, Granger. Make up your mind," he said.

"I have. I've decided that I will place one Floo call on your behalf. Who should I call to come collect you?" she asked. She had no desire to accompany Malfoy to St. Mungo's, so hopefully someone else would come to pick him up discreetly and take care of him.

He thought for a moment. "Call Astoria Greengrass. Tell her I got in another fight. She'll tell you that's the last straw, and she never wants to see me again. Tell her I don't give a shit, and she can find some other rich bloke to marry."

"Excuse me? You're bleeding to death in Muggle London, and you want me to break up with your girlfriend for you? Don't you want someone to bring you to hospital?" In the context of the situation, it was ironic that she was the one sounding hysterical.

"Not really, no. I'd be fine if you'd just give me back my wand. I bet I can still catch those wankers."

"You're not going to do that."

She was already out here, and she'd already made the decision not to let him die, so she'd have to take matters into her own hands. Nigel would understand that it was a life-or-death situation if she had to postpone their date. She bent forward to help him up, and he resisted, but eventually she managed to get his arm around her shoulders and drag him inside the building. Once in the stairwell, she surveyed the damage and cast a few minor healing spells so he could make it up to her flat. After he was feeling better, he was even more reluctant to come with her, and she had to hold him at wandpoint just to get him up the stairs.

"Nice flat," he said. "Really prime location." She rolled her eyes; sarcasm was not necessary.

"Stand still," she ordered, and then she used her wand to clean the rest of the blood off him. "Now lay down on the couch." To her surprise, he complied quietly, and she was able to heal the wounds on the back of his head and his face. She decided to leave the bruises on his arms and presumably his chest, because she didn't want to take off his shirt and also he deserved it.

"Thanks, Granger. I'm going to go finish this," he said, making to head out the door.

She lifted her wand and cast a leg-locker curse on him, and he fell rigidly to the floor in her entryway.

Just then, the doorbell rang. She moved around Malfoy's body and opened the door a crack.

"Hi, are you ready?" Nigel asked. Then, he noticed the blood on her jacket and her hands and in her hair, and his eyes went wide with panic. "What happened to you?"

"Oh, it's not mine," she said. "Look, I think we're going to have to do this another time. Something's come up." He looked hurt and more than a little bit confused.

"Erm, all right. I guess it must be really important." He was trying to peek around her into the flat, but she knew he couldn't see Malfoy from his angle.

"It is. Sorry!"

"So, I'll owl you to reschedule, then," he said.

"Sure. I have to go deal with this," she said shortly before closing the door in his face. She'd sort of been looking forward to this date, so the relief she felt at sending Nigel away came as a surprise. All she had to do was see his face, and she began to feel restless and bored. He really wasn't a very interesting bloke, which was probably good for her at this point, but she had to admit she'd wanted something a little more exciting. She looked back down at Malfoy, who was scowling up at her ceiling.

"You didn't have to break off your date on account of me, Granger. You healed me, so why don't you just let me go?" he asked, and it was a good question.

"You were going to go after those Muggles and get yourself killed."

"What's it to you?"

"Your death would be on my head," she said. "I don't want to go the rest of my life knowing that you died because I didn't help you."

"That makes sense. It's not like anybody gives a shit if I'm alive. When I die, there will be a modest crowd at my funeral, and half of them will feel guilty and the other half will be disappointed because they wanted something from me and never got it," he said. She could tell he was still drunk, so she levitated him back over to her couch, electing not to respond.

"Stay here tonight and sleep it off. When you're sober, I'll release the curse and you can go home."

He didn't respond, and she watched him for a second before going back to her room. She carefully stripped off her blood-stained clothing and cleaned it as best she could, and then she went to take a shower. As the blood ran in pink streaks out of her hair, she tried to figure out what on earth she was going to do with Malfoy in the morning.


	2. Justice

**Chapter 2: Justice**

After her shower, Hermione wasn't sure what to do. She dried her body and her hair again, but this time just with a towel. She pulled it back into a ponytail and grabbed her toothbrush to clean the acrid taste out of her mouth, but then the stomach-acid flavour jogged her memory.

Toothbrush in hand, she crept back into the living room. She heard Malfoy snoring, which meant that he had yet to choke on his own vomit and die. Wouldn't it be ironic if she went to all the trouble of taking him into her flat for his own safety, only to end up killing him herself through gross negligence? She released the leg-locker and turned him carefully onto his side, and then she went back to the bathroom. The spell probably would've worn off during the night anyway, and if he wanted to leave, that was his prerogative. She was pretty sure he'd only wanted to recklessly endanger himself and others because he was so pissed out of his mind.

She went into her bedroom and hid under her blankets, even though her hair was still wet on her pillow, and she hated that. She just couldn't bring herself to shoot any more ions at her brain. She didn't fall asleep for hours, but she didn't get up either. She had a lot of things to think about, even though her mind kept wandering dangerously to unfortunate places.

As a Magical Law Enforcement Officer, she would actually be well within her rights to detain Malfoy on grounds of Muggle endangerment.

_His neck snapping back, eyes wide, one front tooth breaks right in half and I just _–

In fact, it was her responsibility to do so, especially considering that he'd admitted these fights were a regular occurrence for him.

– _smile__. _"_Hermione, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he'd plead, never again to tell me that it was somehow _my_ fault that he'd –_

She'd hardly heard any news about him since the War, and she'd thought he was trying to lay low and keep himself out of trouble. Little did she know he'd been taking out his aggression on Muggles instead of other wizards.

– _acted that way. Leaning on me constantly, asking me for more and more, living in my flat unemployed and rent-free. Any time I brought it up with any of our mutual friends, they'd just tell me to put up with it, because Ron was just such a wonderful human being until he elected you to be his new mother – _

There had been a brief mention of his relatively recent engagement to Astoria Greengrass, around the same time that Hermione had left Ron, and at the time she couldn't help but feel jealous. Here was her childhood enemy looking so normal and carefree, standing next to some beautiful blonde who looked like his sister or his mum or something, which was bloody weird in Hermione's opinion. She'd thought that Malfoy was at least intelligent, even though his personality was all moldy, but there he was getting married to some insipid bimbo. Hermione had never spoken with Astoria, but she could just tell from those shallow, empty blue eyes. Why should Malfoy and some pretty little fool get to be happy, while Hermione Granger went wanting? Hermione Granger, indispensable member of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter's best friend, and the Brightest Witch of Her Age, left high and dry.

_If they had to put up with his nonsensical mood swings for just twenty-four hours, just one day, they would change their tune. But they didn't have to do that, and they wouldn't help me, and that's why I have to do this all by myself. I'll get Ron alone, away from Lavender, and I'll say –_

Some people liked to say that life wasn't fair, but nobody ever said that unless they were actively making it even less fair than it was naturally, usually by being too lazy to do anything about it. Hermione wasn't lazy.

– '_Ron, do you have anything you'd like to say to me?' Yeah, give him one last chance, just to see what he does. Just to play with him a little bit. And he'd say, 'Gosh, Hermione, I don't know what you mean. You're the one who dumped me. How can you be mad at me for getting back together with Lavender?' And then I'd say – _

It turned out, though, that life had been just a little bit more fair than Hermione had believed at that time. It seemed that Malfoy was actually desperately unhappy with Astoria. He'd probably have to go back to her in the morning with his tail between his legs and beg for forgiveness –

– '_Oh, but I'm not mad at you, Ronald. You have every right to be with Lavender. It's just that I've got something that you gave me, and I just have to give it back,' and then –_

– and then –

– _and__ **then** – _

he'd be just as miserable as he deserved.

– _I'll wind up and block his stupid, predictable, self-centered reply with my little white fist. He'll choke on his words, and he'll reel backwards, and he'll be just as miserable as he deserves. _

Of course, she'd never do that for real. It was just a fantasy.

She fell asleep at last, but not before she got to hear Malfoy throw up in her bathroom.

* * *

At seven o'clock the next morning, Hermione was pleasantly surprised to find Malfoy still sleeping like a rock in her living room, and he wasn't even lying in a pool of his own sick.

She decided he'd be more willing to answer her questions if she made him a cup of coffee. There were still a few drops of hangover potion left in a vial in her cupboard, from when Ron had lived there and got so drunk so frequently, and she poured it into the bottom of Malfoy's mug. The ingredients for that potion had cost Hermione one hundred galleons, and she'd never even used it on herself, and she decided it was only fair to send Ron a bill at her earliest convenience. She considered a dash of Veritaserum for Malfoy, but for some reason she didn't think it would be necessary.

She brought the mug into the living room and took a seat in an armchair next to the couch, her knees near Malfoy's head, setting the beverage on the end table. She reached out and shook his shoulder, harder and harder until he finally stirred. Then, several things happened very quickly.

Malfoy seized her wrist and launched himself off the couch, pulling her up with him so that she spun around, her back landing hard against his chest. With one hand, he twisted her right arm behind her, and the other went around the top of her chest to hold her in place, grasping her left wrist on its way to hold it firm across her breasts. Maybe it was because he was so disoriented, but the arm he'd placed around her was just a few centimetres too low to block her obvious next move, and he should have known better. She tucked her chin all the way into her chest and then threw her head back savagely, and she felt her skull connect with his nose, and his hands snapped off her. She turned to face him and bounced back a few metres, grabbing her wand out of her pocket and aiming it at his chest.

It had been very stupid of her not to have it out from the start, especially since she'd been planning to wake a sleeping war veteran in an unfamiliar locale. She'd have done the same thing he did if she'd woken up in Malfoy Manor after blacking out the night before. But if she were the one restraining him, she'd have been less clumsy and placed her arm directly beneath his chin, so he didn't even have a free centimetre to drop it down and gain momentum. She suspected he may have realized who she was sometime between her chin on her chest and her skull on his face, because his grip on her wrist had suddenly gone lax, but he should have figured it out sooner if he didn't want a broken face.

His hand was on his nose now, attempting to stem the blood flowing once again from his head, and expletives were flowing freely from his mouth. At the rate they were going, she'd have to brew him a blood replenishment potion, and that was a hassle. She stepped forward.

"I'm going to heal your nose," she warned, so he wouldn't try to block her wand. He allowed her to tap his nose, and a blue light spread from the end of her wand to heal him. He nodded once in thanks, and Hermione decided that they both owed each other an apology, so it would be fair if they both just skipped it.

"I made you some coffee."

"Yeah, I'm sure you did. Any chance you tossed any sugar in there with the truth serum? I take two lumps, no cream."

"There's no truth serum, but I did have a few drops of hangover potion to put in there. You'll want to drink it."

"I'll drink it if you will."

"Fine," she said, grabbing the mug off the table to take a generous sip. She waited a moment while he watched her. "Draco Malfoy, I want to marry you," she told him. "See? No truth serum."

He actually cracked a smile at her joke before reaching for the cup, which surprised her. "Point taken." He downed the whole thing in one gulp, despite the temperature, and shook his head to clear it. "Oh, much better."

"Sit back down," she ordered, aiming her wand at him once more, and he lounged on her couch again. She kept her eyes on him as she lowered herself into the armchair. "I have a few questions to ask before I allow you to go home."

"Take as long as you want then, because I haven't got one of those."

"There's nowhere you could go?"

"Not really. My fiancée said that if I stayed out all night one more time, I needn't bother coming back, and there's no way I'm going back to my parents' house."

Hermione sighed. She'd deal with that issue later. "All right. I'm legally bound to inform you that as of this moment, you are being officially detained on suspicion of Muggle endangerment and misuse of magic."

He chuckled, but she didn't know what was funny. "Fine by me."

"Do you remember last night?"

"Vividly."

"Can you describe the events leading up to your appearance in the alley?"

"I went to the Red Lion, as I do somewhat frequently, and I found a bloke who looked like he'd be an even match. I only like fair fights, you see. I went up to this bloke and offered an unsolicited opinion about his mother, and then I let him choose what would happen next. He came to a decision in short order and punched me in the face. I suggested that we take this outside, and he agreed, but apparently he was friends with pub security. They accompanied him out into the alley, where they proceeded to beat me to a bloody pulp, and then you found me."

"Why did you pick a fight?"

"Oh, come on, you can figure out the answer to that. Haven't you ever wanted to hit somebody?"

"No," she said too quickly, and she wondered if he could tell she was lying.

"I'm not entirely convinced, especially considering that you've hit me before. But I don't even mean a specific person, just _somebody_, and have them hit you back until you feel alive again."

"How often do you do this?"

"Once or twice a month, I'd say, but there isn't anything you can do about it. All of my actions have been in self-defense. They always throw the first punch, and I'm not aware of any law against insulting strangers in pubs. If that were on the books, they might as well just turn London into one giant jail."

"You're half-right. I could argue that it is, in fact, against the law because they're Muggles you're provoking."

"Someone could make that argument, but not you. Wizard-Muggle altercations are not within your jurisdiction. I don't even know who you'd hand me off to for that, considering I've never used magic in Muggle London, and I don't intend to start. Like I said, I'm only looking for fair fights."

She pressed her lips together. He was right: he wasn't technically doing anything illegal as long as he'd never used his wand. What he was doing was actually more weird than anything else, and more than a little dysfunctional. (_It sounded liberating)._ It sounded horrible.

"Well, I don't know what to say except stop. Eventually you're going to get in over your head like you did last night, and if you refuse to pull your wand, they'll kill you next time. They would have if I hadn't been there to Confound that guy."

He shrugged. "I don't think that'll happen again." She noticed he was getting inordinately comfortable on her couch, throwing his feet up on the cushions, and she decided she was finished questioning him. If he got himself killed, she reckoned she'd just have to read about it in the papers.

"Fine. I'm done questioning you, and I've decided not to pursue any further action against you. Where are you going to go after this?"

"I don't know. Here, there, everywhere – maybe nowhere."

"Could you be a bit more specific? I'm not allowed to release you until you tell me your next projected location."

"I know, that's why I was so happy when you said you were detaining me."

"What?"

"You can't legally release me unless I can tell you where I'm going after this."

"Yes, I know."

"That means you have to let me stay on your couch until I figure out a place to go, and don't even think about tossing me in a holding cell. Firstly because you've already retracted the charges against me, so locking me up would be of dubious legitimacy at best. Second, I have this hunch that you didn't tell anybody you were going to conduct this little impromptu interrogation. I bet your boss would be annoyed to learn that you're stuck with me until further notice all because of a little barroom brawl."

Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Her throat went dry, and she stared at Malfoy and tried to keep her wand hand from shaking. "Why can't you go back to the manor?"

"Kicked out. When I got engaged, my parents told me not to screw it up this time, or they wouldn't take me back in. It's unfortunate for you, Granger, but there isn't anybody that you can force to take me in."

"Why would you even want to stay here?"

"It's somewhere to stay, and you're not Astoria. Also, the couch is pretty comfortable, and this flat is situated right above my favorite Muggle pub. This is essentially a best-case scenario for me. You and I don't really hate each other any more than me and anybody else. I will admit that it's looking pretty awful for you, but you're the one who detained me."

She was. She couldn't go on about what everybody else deserved if she wasn't willing to do the same for herself. She'd made her bed, and now she'd have to lie in it.

"Fine. Do you have a job?"

"No." Well, that was good at least. If he did, she would be legally bound to arrange his transportation.

"Then let me clarify the rules of this arrangement. You are not allowed to handle any items in this residence without my express permission. You may not allow third parties entrance to this residence at any time, for any reason, without my express permission. You must alert me of your comings and goings at all times, and you must disclose to me and any and all locations which you plan to visit. Any communication between you and third parties is at my sole discretion and subject to my review. You may not transport any foreign objects of any kind into this residence at any time without my express permission, and you consent to any search of your person by me that I deem necessary. In the event that I do allow you to bring items onto the premises, you must immediately forfeit all rights to their use or possession. Any items which you have already transported here on your person will be retroactively released into my possession, including your wand. You may not cause any noise or commotion that I deem to be excessive or unnecessary. Any violation of these terms, regardless of the results, will be considered an attack on a Magical Law Enforcement officer and prosecuted as such. Do you understand and agree to these conditions?"

"Got that memorized, have you?"

"Answer the question."

"I have to, don't I?"

"Yes or no."

"All right, yes. May I continue to wear these clothes?"

"Yes. In fact, you are required to continue wearing the clothes."

He manufactured a disappointed look. "Can I have my wand back?"

"No."

"All right. I'm going to go back to sleep, then."

"I reserve the right to shine lights on your face."

"Isn't that a bit churlish?"

"You're on my couch."

"Fair enough. Good night, Granger." He smiled and rolled over onto his stomach, shielding his eyes with his arm. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Harry and Ginny were coming over for dinner on Sunday, which was tomorrow. Maybe she could stuff Malfoy in a closet or something. Then, of course, she would have to go to work all week and leave Malfoy alone at her flat. She felt another wave of nausea come on – he seemed to have that effect on her – and headed back into the kitchen to pour some coffee for herself.


	3. Legal Rights

**Chapter 3: Legal Rights**

At around two in the afternoon, Malfoy woke up. Hermione could tell because the air in her flat suddenly took on a corrosive, metallic tang that burned the back of her throat. Also, she could hear him yelling at her from the living room.

"Granger, make me some breakfast!"

She was in the kitchen, trying to go over some paperwork for a property law case: Dagmar Morgenstern was taking legal action against his neighbor, Eleanor Bones, because her rose bushes had grown "out of control," extending 0.47 centimetres onto his property. Madam Bones had then filed a countersuit, asserting that her rose bushes were an improvement to the general environment, while Morgenstern's lawn flamingo collection was "an eyesore." It was the most boring and pointless thing Hermione had ever been forced to read, and her brain kept rebelling by setting itself on unrelated thoughts.

_The obvious solution, of course, is to shove Mr. Morgenstern's face into the thorns while hitting Madam Bones with a flamingo until they both learn a lesson about improper use of the legal system._

"Make it yourself. Also, it's not remotely breakfast time anymore," she called back.

"So you're giving me permission to handle everything in your kitchen, then?" Oh, for heaven's sake.

"No, I'm not. What do you want?"

"Well, I usually have ham, three eggs, toast, two links of sausage -"

"I can make you cold cereal or porridge," she called back, cutting him off.

"What? Are you trying to starve me to death?" he asked, and Hermione decided she was done hollering at him through the wall. She put her paperwork aside and walked across the kitchen into the living room, where Malfoy hadn't even bothered to get off the couch. He sat up on his elbows as she came in, looking a little too relaxed, and then she had an idea.

"You are no longer allowed to use the sofa."

The binding magical contract activated itself automatically, and the sofa gave off a faint orange glow as it recognized the breach. Malfoy yelped with pain and launched himself over onto the floor. His arm came into contact with the coffee table, which he had also not been given permission to use, and he cried out again and snatched it away. She waited for him to collect himself and stand up in the centre of the room, brushing himself off indignantly.

"That was sadistic," he said.

"No, it wasn't. It would be sadistic if I said you weren't allowed to use the floor." She would reserve that for later if he really needed to be put in his place, and she smiled at the thought of Malfoy hopping around frantically as though he were standing on hot coals. He glared at her, crossing his arms across his chest like a petulant child.

"Fine. I want porridge."

"Rephrase that."

"Can I have porridge?"

"No."

"_May_ I have porridge?"

"Close."

He sighed and took his time looking around the room before his hunger finally won out. "May I have porridge, _please_," he ground out at last.

"Yes, you may," she said, satisfied. "You can sit in the chair I've chosen for you at the table and wait while I make it," she informed him, picturing the chair closest to the stove in her mind.

He gave her a pained look. "Which chair is that?"

"I'm sure you can figure it out through trial and error," she said, before walking back into the kitchen to start cooking. As she pulled out a saucepan, she was pleased to note that he tried all the wrong chairs before finally settling in the correct one with a sigh of relief.

"How long are you going to be punishing me like this?"

"Until it's not as funny, I'd imagine," she said. When the porridge was finished, she placed the bowl in front of Malfoy and handed him a spoon. Then, she sat back in her chair to attend to her work. She wasn't watching him very closely, but she did notice that he had impeccable table manners.

"So, Granger, what are you working on?"

"That's not any of your business."

"It looks boring."

"It is."

"Is your job always boring?"

"No," she lied, with a note of finality. Well, it wasn't completely a lie: her job had its interesting moments, but the vast majority of cases were closer to the "flamingos vs. rose bushes" variety. Malfoy let the subject drop, and Hermione made another valiant attempt at reading the documents, but it still wasn't going very well. Ideally, she'd come up with something that would satisfy both of the plaintiffs, or they'd just keep coming back with further appeals and yelling at her over the Floo, and she couldn't think of a solution that wouldn't make one or both of them angry. She had decided a case involving Eleanor Bones once before, in which Madam Bones's cat had killed someone's owl completely unprovoked, and Hermione had found in favour of the owl's owner. The next day, she'd received the longest and most detailed Howler of her life, even worse than the one Molly Weasley had sent after Hermione had kicked Ron out of her flat.

_Maybe if Molly didn't coddle her children for so long, they'd learn to take care of themselves, and I wouldn't have to do the dirty work. But isn't that just typical? Everyone is always handing their work off to me, from Potions essays back in school to difficult decisions to trivial lawsuits that no one else would even read. Just because I'm good at things isn't an excuse to make me do everything all the time._

Mr. Morgenstern seemed less likely to make a fuss, and Hermione had to resist the temptation to find in Madam Bones's favour on that basis alone.

_Both houses burning to the ground while Bones and Morgenstern stand helplessly in the street and watch, mouths agape. When the flames die down, all that's left is one wilting rose bush and one charred lawn flamingo, and suddenly they don't seem so bloody important anymore._

"By the way, Granger," said Malfoy, mercifully interrupting her thoughts. "I have no intention of freeloading. Tell me how much to pay you each month for rent, and I'll get you a cheque."

Imagine that. Between chewing with his mouth closed and chipping in for rent, Malfoy was already a better flatmate than Ron. Of course, the best flatmate was still nobody. Hermione's rent was 300 galleons, and her flat was connected to Muggle electricity, for which she paid an additional £29.87, which converted to six galleons. She did some quick arithmetic in her head, factoring in the use of her food and utilities, how filthy rich he was with undeserved money, and the general inconvenience of having Malfoy around.

"You can give me 305 galleons a month." And then she realized something disturbing about that phrasing. "Wait a minute, how long are you planning to stay here?"

"I don't know. Maybe forever," he said. "I'm hoping to score a bed sometime along the way, but if all you've got is the sofa, I'm not complaining."

"You can't be serious."

"No, really, I don't mind the couch. It's just that over time it could be bad for my back." He gave her a cheeky grin, and Hermione waited patiently for him to lift another spoonful of food into his mouth and swallow.

"You aren't allowed to digest my porridge anymore," she said, and he immediately doubled over in pain, hands on his stomach.

"Make it stop, make it stop!"

"You knew what I meant. Say you're sorry."

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry, fuck!" Satisfied with his apology, she relented.

"All right. You may continue to digest the porridge." He sagged with relief. "We can keep doing this until you learn to watch your mouth, Malfoy. Don't forget: at any given time, you are in physical contact with something that belongs to me."

"For fuck's sake, it was just a joke," he said.

"How long do you intend to stay here?"

"I will repeat myself: maybe forever. Either that or a really long time. I told you this is a best-case scenario for me, and I have nowhere else to go."

"You could find your own flat."

"I could, but I don't want to, and you can't make me. Technically, you are still actively detaining me until I tell you my next projected location. And as long as I'm staying here under your arrest, I have to tell you where I'm going, but you can't force me to go anywhere. Unless you'd like to quote me a specific law that says you can."

She glared at him. She reckoned it had to be on the books somewhere, but she didn't have that one memorized. This would require extra research in addition to her existing work, and meanwhile Malfoy would still be in her flat. "How do you know so much about this?"

"I'm a Malfoy. We get detained a lot, because we are constantly under suspicion of just about everything. Funny story - one time, my great uncle Aloysius made a Magical Law Enforcement officer miss his own wedding, because neither of them was allowed to leave a bench in Knockturn Alley for ten days. So, cheer up - it could be worse."

Hermione already knew that story: it was a very famous case, and it was the source of many of the current arrest laws. Fifty years ago, Aloysius Malfoy had gone to Knockturn Alley to set a few affairs in order before moving to France later that day, having already sold his home in England. He sat on a bench to wait for his International Portkey to activate, whereupon a Magical Law Enforcement officer detained him on suspicion of "being up to something." They had to involve the French Ministry to verify his new home, which took a few days worth of red tape on its own.

Mr. Malfoy was set to be released once that was complete, but apparently he had nothing better to do than mess with the Ministry, so he helpfully pointed out that the officer still did not have adequate proof either way as to whether or not he was "up to something." Until a definitive conclusion could be reached, they had to remain on the bench. Crowds had already begun to form every day to watch the two men yell at each other, meals had to be brought in by Ministry officials, and bathroom breaks were an issue.

Finally, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was able to push through a reform bill that clarified the conditions under which an officer could detain a citizen. "Appearing to be up to something" no longer qualified, Mr. Malfoy was released immediately with a clean record, and the officer was relieved of his duties for being a giant embarrassment to the whole organization. Hermione hadn't heard about what happened with his wedding, but she reckoned he'd probably also been relieved of his marital obligations. She wouldn't have married Ron no matter what, but she especially wouldn't have married him if he'd done something as stupid and humiliating as that. But of course Malfoy would think it was a funny story.

"And you know what's so weird about it," Malfoy continued. "You lot always get so disappointed when you realize we're not doing anything wrong. You're Magical Law Enforcement officers! Shouldn't you be happy when someone's not breaking the law?"

Theoretically, yes. On the other hand, nothing was more satisfying to officers like herself than having an excuse to put Malfoys behind bars. Not just because she didn't like them, but also because everyone knew they were doing illegal things basically all the time and just not getting caught. Also, it was more interesting than domestic garden disputes. Speaking of which, Hermione had finally finished the summary page of her documents and turned to the next one.

"Are those lawn flamingos?" Malfoy asked incredulously, looking across the table at Figure 1 on the page, a close-up photograph of Morgenstern's treasured collection.

"Yes," she said, peering closely at the photograph. It would be easy for her to prove the objects were "an eyesore" if they were dirty or dilapidated, but they appeared to be in pristine condition.

"Granger, you've got at least twenty pages of fine-print legalese in that pile. Please tell me it isn't all about lawn flamingos."

"No, some of it is about rose bushes," she informed him, trying to figure out another angle to prove the ornaments were damaging the neighborhood aesthetic. She could see Morgenstern's house in the background, and it was painted a virulent orange that clashed pretty firmly with the pink, but that probably wouldn't work. Morgenstern could get around it by painting his house pink to match the flamingos, and then they'd be right back where they started.

_I could go out there with a chainsaw and shred every last fucking fake bird._

"Why are you reading about that?"

She sighed and decided she might as well explain the situation, to shut him up and because maybe saying it out loud would help her think of a way to resolve it. "The first plaintiff is complaining that his neighbor's rose bushes have extended almost half a centimetre onto his land, but she's filed a countersuit that his lawn ornaments are an eyesore."

"Almost half a centimetre? Really? Why can't the neighbor just prune the bushes while he moves the flamingos to the backyard?"

"She says that would damage the bushes beyond repair, and he says his flamingos are happiest in the sunlight."

"Who sues somebody over that? Why can't they just figure out a compromise?"

"I don't know. They're old and have nothing better to do."

"May I have permission to go out there and cut down her bushes and break all the flamingos?"

_Yes!_

"No."

"I thought you were supposed to be Miss War Heroine Number One. Why is this shit your job?"

_EXACTLY!_

"The plaintiff in the countersuit is a repeat offender with suits like these, and nobody else knows how to deal with her."

"Why can't you throw out the case and sentence them both to a smack upside the head?"

_Neck snapping back, eyes wide..._

It would be completely despicable for anyone to take physical action against an old woman.

"The aforementioned plaintiff has connections in the Ministry."

"Well, in that case I'm out of ideas."

"Good, because I never asked you for any."

Malfoy went back to his porridge, and Hermione went back to her documents.

"Now just to make sure, you already ascertained that the offending rose bush branches are less than six centimetres off the ground?"

"No, why?"

"In order for their presence to be in violation of the plaintiff's property, they have to be either less than six centimetres above his lawn or extend six centimetres or more onto his property."

He was right. It had been a long time since she'd dealt with this type of property law, and she'd completely forgotten about that regulation. She flicked through the documents until she found a photo of the rose bushes, and the blooms that hung over onto Morgenstern's property were easily more than six centimetres off the ground.

"Tell the truth this time. How in the world did you know that?"

"I used to want to do what you're doing, but they wouldn't let me."

_What a coincidence, because I want to punch people's lights out in pubs, and they won't let me do that._

"You wanted to work in Magical Law Enforcement?"

"No, I wanted to be a private lawyer. They wouldn't even let me take the Magical Law Certification Exam."

"On what grounds?"

"Suspicion of whatever, I don't even remember. It was all bullshit, but I knew there was no way around it if they all hated me that much." Well, that wasn't fair. She wondered who'd been responsible for barring Malfoy from the exam, but it would be too late to do anything about it now even if she wanted to. "And look how successful they were. They kept me from pursuing a legitimate profession, so now I get into barfights in Muggle London."

"Not anymore, you don't."

"We'll see about that," he said.

It was already four o'clock, and Harry and Ginny would be arriving at five. She'd decided to stick with her original plan of hiding Malfoy in the closet, and if she started now she'd have time to cook dinner before they arrived. In fact, now that Malfoy had helped her figure out how to resolve this suit, she had plenty of free time that night. The best part was that she'd be able to side with Madam Bones: no more Howlers.

_Maybe I could send the old bint a Howler of my own, something about abusing the honoured memory of one's dead sister-in-law to file all the bullshit lawsuits you want any time somebody pisses you off._

"All right, Malfoy. I'm having some guests over tonight, so I'm going to have to put you in the closet."

"What? How long do you intend to hide me?"

"I don't know, two hours or so."

"No, I mean how long before you tell your friends I live here?"

"You don't live here, and you never will, so that isn't something that I have to worry about."

"Now, that's just simply inaccurate. If you're going by time spent in the flat, I live here more than you do. If you're going by financial contributions, I still live here more than you do – there's no way this place costs you more than 610 galleons a month, so I know you're charging me a good deal more than half. Not that I care how much you want me to pay, but face it: I live here."

She closed her eyes at the onset of a headache. There was no way around it. Malfoy lived with her. She lived with Malfoy. She and Malfoy _lived together_.

"Fine, you live here, but it's still my name on the lease, I still have your wand, and I still make the rules. And if I say you have to hide in a closet, you're going to hide in a closet."

"I'll do it tonight, but eventually you'll realize that you can't keep your dirty little secret forever."

"That is none of your concern. You've finished your porridge, so follow me."

She stood up from the table and led him from the kitchen into the entryway, where there was a coat closet. It was summer, so it was unlikely that Harry or Ginny would be wearing a jacket, but she still couldn't risk hiding him in such an accessible location. No, she'd have to hide him in her bedroom closet. She sighed and kept going back through the hallway into her bedroom, which at least was tidy at present.

"You've got a big bed in here, Granger. I don't suppose you'd be willing to share?"

_Maybe._

"I'm going to pretend you didn't ask that." She pulled open the doors to the spacious walk-in closet and took a look around to make sure nothing illicit was visible. Then, she stepped inside and grabbed her outfit for the evening. "All right, get in. You may not look at anything except the floor. You may not touch the door or leave this space." He shuffled inside and looked down as she'd instructed, and she knew it would burn his eyes if he tried to do otherwise.

"Have a nice dinner, Granger. I'm looking forward to meeting your friends, either when you decide to introduce me or when they stumble onto me by accident. And remember – if you keep this up and that's how they find out about me, it's going to look really bad. People are going to make assumptions." His face was turned down, but she could still make out that stupid smirk. She decided not to respond.

She closed and locked the door, leaving him alone in the dark, and cast a two-way sound-proofing charm. Then, she changed quickly into her smarter clothes and padded back into her kitchen to prepare a nice dinner the Muggle way, which she still preferred. But the entire time she was a nervous wreck. She knew she was being paranoid, but it felt like there were so many things that could go wrong, and it would be such a disaster if Harry and Ginny found out what was going on. At five o'clock, the doorbell rang.

"Just a second!" she called, running into her bedroom to check the closet door one more time. Then, she smoothed her skirt, checked the mirror, and hurried back out to answer the door.

Harry and Ginny were standing there, looking all normal and happy, and she felt jealous again. They deserved their happiness a thousand times over, but she wished she could be happy, too. She'd realised while dating Ron that she didn't necessarily want what they had. It seemed like her life would get a little too repetitive if she were to settle down with a white picket fence, and it was too much pressure trying to figure out a way to do what she wanted when half of everything she did was for somebody else. She'd lost her beloved Crookshanks the previous year in a tragic accident involving the 31 bus and a chipmunk, and she'd been thinking about buying a kitten at some point, but babies didn't figure into her five-year plan.

She just wanted something that could take away that gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that kept reminding her that she was trapped somehow, backed into a corner and kept from getting what she really needed. It would be much easier to overcome if she knew what that thing was. Ginny and Harry each rushed forward to hug her, in turn, and she motioned them into her flat.

_I'm bored already, and they hadn't even started talking about their kid yet._

"So how's James?" she asked, since she had to. It was only polite. Ginny began to ramble on in detail about how her baby was the best baby ever, with Harry beaming and interjecting his own comments. Hermione waited, smiling and nodding, because she knew it was easiest to get this portion of the evening out of the way quickly and all at once. Sure, children were miracles and everything, but they were boring at this age. Hermione was interested in things that other people thought were boring, too, but you didn't see her going around lecturing everybody about Arithmancy and the intricacies of magical law. Okay, so it wasn't the same thing, but still. When Ginny had finally gotten all the mum-talk out of her system, Hermione invited them into the kitchen to serve the meal.

"This is great, Hermione!" Harry enthused, particles of potato flying out of his mouth as he spoke.

_Finally found a man who doesn't do that. I was beginning to think they didn't exist._

"Yeah, Hermione, you're such a great cook," Ginny said. "Ron really misses your home-cooked meals," she added. Ginny thought that enough time should have passed for Hermione to realise that she'd made a terrible mistake and throw herself back into Ron's not-so-waiting arms.

_Oh, I'll throw something at Ron, all right, but she won't like it._

Harry gave his wife a warning look. "Ginny, Hermione asked us not to talk about that."

"I know. I'm sorry, Hermione," she said. Hermione knew she meant the apology sincerely, but that didn't mean she was giving up. She loved her brother as much as she loved Hermione, but what she loved most was the two of them together. "I just wish things hadn't turned out this way."

Hermione manufactured a sympathetic look as best she could. "Me, too, but what's done is done. I'm sure that soon, Ron and I can be friends, and things will be normal again. We just weren't meant to be together like you and Harry."

_Like fucking hell I'll be friends with that miserable bastard._

Harry changed the subject in a hurry, and she was grateful for that. She'd talk about Ron if that's what Ginny wanted, but she didn't know how long she could go before her tongue slipped and she said something really honest.

_Like how I want to lay him out._

Unfortunately, the subject soon turned back to James Sirius Potter II and the many fascinating noises he could make, which Hermione was pretty sure all sounded exactly the same to the untrained ear. When James was old enough to act like a person, she'd be falling all over herself to hear about all the things he could do, but at present his talents consisted of babbling in a crib and losing control of his bowels. Charming dinner table conversation, to be sure.

Once the meal was over, Hermione said good night to her friends, explaining that she had to finish reviewing the documents for the rose bush-flamingo argument before bed. She was fibbing a bit, because there wasn't much paperwork to do now that Malfoy had found a loophole, but she knew they didn't want to stay out too late since James was still so young. Also, she guessed that Ron had probably been stuck with babysitting duty, and Ron was the most irresponsible human being she had ever encountered. She hadn't even liked to leave him alone with her cat.

Anyway, it had been a lovely evening. When she opened the closet door again, she couldn't help but feel relieved to see that Malfoy was still exactly how she'd left him, even though there was no conceivable way he could've gotten out.

"How was dinner?"

"Good. You can look up and leave the closet now." He lifted his head and cracked his neck, jerking it from side to side. Then he looked her up and down.

"You look half-way decent. Did you have another date tonight?"

"None of your business."

He looked past her at her perfectly-made bed. "Looks like you didn't get any, though. I guess that wasn't enough time to eat dinner and have a shag, but it depends on the bloke, right?"

_In two hours, Ron and I could've eaten dinner fifteen times and shagged, considering how fast he ate and how fast he…_

"Do you like using my floor? Because it is really starting to sound like you don't appreciate that privilege."

"Oh, Granger, is nobody allowed to have any fun around here? I mean, I know you don't, but you could at least let me."

"That's enough."

"Can I go down to the pub tonight?"

"No."

"What if you go with me?"

"It's Sunday night."

"So? I finished your work for you. How about we go downstairs and have a few drinks?"

"We're not going to do that."

"Come on, I'm bored out of my mind, and I know you are, too. Just a couple of drinks, and I won't start any fights."

She looked down at herself, and she did look good tonight. She'd finally had an excuse to wear her new skirt and blouse, and she had some shoes that would go perfectly with this outfit. It'd be a shame if she only wore it around her flat, with no one but two of her oldest friends and one of her oldest enemies to see it. And she _had_ finished all her work. Also, loath as she was to admit it, Malfoy was her new flatmate. They would be spending way too much time together in the near future, until she figured out a way to permanently remove him from her home, so it wouldn't hurt to have a regular conversation with him. And if her goal was to have a regular conversation with Malfoy, she'd definitely need some alcohol.

"I guess. But you are not allowed to talk to anyone except me once we leave this flat. You may sit where I tell you to sit and drink what I give you to drink. Do not touch anyone except me, at any time, for any reason. Is that clear?"

"So then I can touch you?"

"No, that's not what I meant."

"But that's what you said."

"You may _not_ touch me. Are we clear?"

"Yes. You've made the right decision. This will be fun."


	4. Liability

**Chapter 4: Liability**

"You can't go out looking like that, though."

Almost all the blood was gone from his person, which wasn't really fair: she'd cleaned him off first, and by the time she got to her own outfit, the stains had dried into the fabric. His clothes were still dirty and wrinkled, though, and he'd been wearing them for at least two days now. It was gross.

"What else am I supposed to wear?"

"I think I've got a few men's shirts and things in a drawer somewhere." They were Ron's, of course; she didn't want to throw away someone else's clothing, but she didn't want to give them back either, and most of the time she forgot they were there. Every time she came upon them at the bottom of her drawer, she'd think to herself

_I should burn this shit._

that she should give them to Harry or Ginny and just get rid of them, but then she'd forget again.

"Whose are those?" Malfoy asked, with lecherous interest.

"Like everything else about my life, that's none of your business." He was standing too close, and she folded her arms over her chest to shut him out.

"But our lives have become so interconnected now. You can't bring men back here anymore without knowing I'm in the closet, and the strongest silencing charm in the world won't keep you from wondering if I can hear you. I wouldn't be able to, of course, but you'd wonder."

"Just because you have taken over my couch doesn't mean that our lives are connected in any way."

"That's not really true, but we'll talk about that more this evening," he said. He was clearly more excited about it than she was. "I don't want to wear your ex-boyfriend's clothes because I'm pretty sure we're talking about Weasley here. Actually, that's not true, either: I'm talking about Weasley, but you're not. Why don't you want to say that name?"

"I don't want to tell you anything about myself."

"You dumped him, though, right? I really can't picture it the other way around."

"I'm not talking about this with you."

"Why did you dump him? Did you finally realise he's the ugliest, dumbest, most utterly boring fool in the universe? Or did he want you to have ten children by next week, and your schedule was booked?"

_Both, actually._

She drew herself up, looking for a more commanding stance. "You're getting a little too comfortable again, and I must remind you that I make the rules around here. I'm being generous by letting you leave the flat tonight, and I can take it back. In fact, I'm being generous letting you sleep lying down. If you don't fancy moving from the couch to the closet full-time, I'd recommend shutting your mouth before you say something that you'll come to regret."

"Yes, I keep forgetting that fun is against the rules. You're going to have to get me some more clothes eventually, though. I'll pay for them, but I expect you won't let me go out and buy them."

"No, I won't, but I'm not going to think about that tonight," she said, resigned. "Let's get this over with."

"I appreciate the enthusiasm," he said, and she was really beginning to get sick of his sarcasm, so she left the room. "Granger!" he called after her, "We're still going, right? Are you mad at me again?"

"Yes and yes. I just have to change my shoes. Grow some patience!" she yelled from her bedroom. Once she'd selected the appropriate footwear, she studied her reflection for a few minutes, delaying the inevitable. During the bad times, she'd gotten frumpier and frumpier until her daily attire showed about as much skin as a nun in Greenland, or possibly in space. She'd felt so stuck in that relationship that she didn't care about her appearance, because Ron would be around forever and ever and _ever_, whether she ever wore lipstick or straightened her hair or flashed some ankle again.

After she dumped him, first he'd tried to win her back, and then he was unsuccessful, so he had to hurt her in return. He'd yelled at her for just under an hour, telling her everything that was wrong with her and all the reasons why he was the only one who could ever love her. He needed her to think that she'd never find another man who could look past all those flaws. She'd believed him for a period of time directly after, and it was a very gradual shift back to feeling like a human woman who might be attractive to some people. She knew the things he'd said weren't true, and they were a product of his hurt and anger, and he'd used his knowledge of her insecurities against her. Still, it's almost impossible to hear those things from someone you trust and not believe it.

_And now, instead of hating myself, I hate him._

These days, she was definitely getting better. She had learned how to take pleasure in caring for herself and looking good, and her confidence was back to where it used to be. She tucked her wand into a hidden pocket, even though she couldn't use it in the pub, which was a scary thought. She walked back out to the living room, and Malfoy looked at her shoes. She narrowed her eyes at him, expecting an inappropriate comment, but he just shrugged.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked.

"No, there's one thing to take care of first. I took the liberty of writing your cheque, because I had some free time while you were in your bedroom raising a calf, killing it, skinning it, making it into leather, and then building yourself those shoes."

"What did I say about patience?" she asked, but she held out her hand. "Let's have it, then."

He pointed to the counter behind her, where he'd left a cheque for 315 galleons. "I added ten galleons for our drinks tonight. Wasn't that nice of me?"

She looked at him with a cross between confusion and disgust, but she wasn't about to answer that question. "Let's go," she said.

He followed her downstairs and into the Red Lion, which wasn't very busy.

The bartender asked Malfoy for his drink order, but he wasn't allowed to respond directly, so he turned to her and asked for whiskey on the rocks. She ordered for both of them and they sat down, and he tipped his glass up and finished it all in one.

They stared at each other for a long time without saying anything, while Hermione slowly sipped her vodka & tonic. But he kept looking at the door, like he was waiting for someone or he wanted to run across the room, and it was making her really nervous.

"Are you going to try and escape?" she asked, breaking the silence at last.

"Try and escape! Well, fuck, it looks like you're onto me. That's been my plan this whole time. I've been using reverse psychology, you see. And when I finally free myself from your clutches, do you know what's going to happen?" He leaned in close, and she held her ground.

"My rent cheque is going to bounce," he whispered. Then, he threw his head back and laughed.

"I guess it was just wishful thinking on my part," she said, leaning back as far away from him as possible.

"I'm not going anywhere. You asked me to move in with you, and I accepted, and now we live together."

Hermione blinked at him. Aside from those all being actual English words, what he'd just said had nothing in common with reality. It did not bear so much as a passing resemblance to anything that was or ever had been true. In fact, she was beginning to think that he was quite mad.

He wasn't acting like he did in school. Well, he was and he wasn't: he was insulting her and everything else the same way he always had, but he kept saying it in this mild conversational tone. It was like he was an actor in a Shakespearean tragedy,

_Out, damned spot!_

But he'd only learned English phonetically, and the director had yet to tell him what he was supposed to feel about the words he was saying or even what they meant. He still did that whiny voice, but at odd times when it didn't really make contextual sense. And then there was that strange brightness to his eyes, that uncomfortable sheen that was only there just barely often enough for her to notice it. Yes, Malfoy was absolutely barking.

_This is exciting._

"First of all, that's not even close to what happened. Second, I still don't fully understand your motives for forcing me to take you in, so I don't know if you're going to change your mind. Third, I'm starting to suspect that you are seriously unhinged."

"In response to your first point: that's how I remember it, but the human memory is faulty, including yours. How do you know my version isn't the right one? Try and picture that scene, from the moment you found me in the gutter all the way to the next morning. Reconstruct as many details as possible in your mind." He waited a moment without breaking eye contact. Hermione did as instructed, and she thought she had it spot on: after all, she had an exceptional memory. "Got it?" She nodded. "Now consider that people don't remember traumatic and emotionally-charged events accurately. They think they do, but they can't. They get things wrong – even very important things. And finally, throw out your whole memory, because it's wrong and you know it."

_Dragging him inside, both of us covered in blood, and I ask him to stay with me because it's the most interesting thing that's happened to me in weeks. No, that's not right. I asked him in the morning over coffee, because if he pays my rent I can quit my job. No, that's not what happened at all._

She'd read more than one psychological study that supported his assertions, and it tied into one of her greatest fears: losing her mind without being aware of the loss. What if every memory in her head was factually incorrect, and the things she was most certain about were demonstrably false? More than possible, it was likely. It had been proven time and time again.

"In response to your second point: pass," he continued. "Third: I've worried about that before, too. Then I started asking myself that clichéd old question - is an insane person able to question his own sanity? If you're insane, can you know it? Those are really dumb questions, and of course you can, but I'm not."

"I disagree with everything you just said."

"Well, I agree with what you just said."

"What?"

"You know what I mean. Can I have another drink?"

Oh, God. There was a crazy person living in her flat, and she had no one but herself to blame for it.

_I'm the one who asked him to._

Who knew what he was going to do? She'd have to start locking her bedroom door at night and keep a wand on him constantly.

_So, does being insane just mean not knowing when you shouldn't say something out loud?_

"No, you may not."

"But I can have more later, right? You specifically agreed to a few drinks, and I've only had one."

"You should've thought of that before you drank your first one so fast."

"Why should I think about things like that? What's the difference between now and later?"

Hermione wondered if it was hazardous to her own mental health to get into conversations like this with someone so obviously unwell, but she couldn't resist.

"That's the root of your problems. You don't think about the future when you do things."

Mentally, she listed off the numerous personality disorders this might signify. For example, it was one of the seven signs of Anti-Social Personality Disorder. Now that she thought about it, Malfoy had already displayed all seven: disregard for the law, patterns of deceit and use of aliases, failure to plan for the future, repeated physical fights, disregard for the safety of others, failure to hold down a job, and lack of remorse for his actions. Well, that was a pretty easy armchair diagnosis. She was pretty sure she was right.

"What you fail to realise is that they aren't my problems. On the contrary, I am other people's problem, and that's only because they choose to view things that way. And you've got my reasons all wrong: it's not that I don't care, I just have a broader view. For example, if I didn't know you wanted me around, I'd be gone." If his expressions of empathy for her were sincere, that made Anti-Social Personality Disorder a lot less likely.

"I don't want you around."

"You aren't a very good liar."

"What makes you think I'm lying?"

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me that we have at least one thing in common. Some people like their lives to be happy or normal or productive, but people like us want our lives to be exciting."

"I wouldn't mind being happy, normal, and productive."

"Of course you would – I watched you turn it down last night. Instead of happy and normal, you picked me."

"I had to do that."

"You really didn't, and the sooner you admit that to yourself, the easier this will be. Which brings me back to my point: if my problem is failure to plan for the future, then your problem is the way you view the future."

He gave her a second to digest what he must have thought was a very wise thing to say.

"Allow me to explain. According to most people, the future is made up of a series of possibilities. When you make a decision, one of those possibilities can become your new reality, but people who understand that are only partway there. The present and even the past are made up of those same threads. You don't know you're doing it, but subconsciously you choose what you remember and what you don't. You choose what you notice every second and what you don't. And if you don't notice something or you don't remember it, that doesn't mean that it can't change your life in the future."

_What?_

"Here's a metaphor: I would guess that in your current conception of time, you are a point on a line. Stretching out from that point is a series of threads which represent the different possibilities of your future. You believe that every decision you make will cause you to move down one of those threads, disqualifying all the others while opening a whole new set of possibilities, but that's not how it is. Time moves way too fast for that to be true – you're making too many possibly life-altering subconscious decisions every second of every day. A more accurate image is to picture the threads in a tangled web, some crossing and others parallel. You're a line, moving perpendicular across the threads."

"You are severely off-balance."

"That's one possibility."

"I know why you think that way. Once you take that view, you can do whatever you want. When I was a young girl, my father gave me a metaphor about the same thing. He said that life is a corridor, and you choose which doors to go through. But once you do, you close them behind you, and you can't go back and try another door. What you've done is fooled yourself into thinking you don't have to worry about closing those doors."

"You think I'm insane, but people like that are the ones who'll drive themselves mad thinking about what could have been. Maybe that is what I'm saying: you can do whatever you like in the corridors once you realise that all the doors go to the same place."

She rolled her eyes. "To death?"

"No, Granger, don't be morbid. They all lead to one second, minute, hour, day, or year from right now. You're still you, and everyone else is still the same people they always were. We're all just a little bit older. Your way is making you put too much pressure on certain things, because you see some decisions as 'doors,' while others don't count. I hope I haven't exhausted your dear father's metaphor, but everything's a door. It's all one big door!"

His eyes were wide with excitement at the conversation, and Hermione was pretty sure that Astoria Greengrass wasn't the type who'd be willing to sit with him and discuss her personal perception of time and the universe. Maybe it was the alcohol taking control of her brain, but she found herself giving serious consideration to the deranged ramblings of a madman.

_Except I only had half of one drink._

"Maybe you don't mind that kind of life," she said. "But other people can acknowledge their responsibilities."

"I'd acknowledge them if I had any, but I've gotten rid of those. I'm sick of talking about me and other people. What would you do if you could do whatever you wanted?"

_I'd punch Ron, I'd quit my job, I'd have fantastic sex without getting trapped in a committed relationship, I'd tell Ginny to shut up about babies, I'd -_

"I'd kick you out of my flat and go back to my life."

"Spare me your pathetic attempts at lying. I'm beginning to feel like Beethoven at a primary school piano recital."

"How do you know so much about Muggles?"

"I had to take a class as part of my initial parole agreement, and they're actually quite fascinating creatures. In my studies, I learned how Muggles go about fighting their wars, something that they do almost constantly. Muggles love violence, you see, and that's what gave me the idea to start doing this in the first place. I can see why they like it so much: when you fight with just your fists, you can do it as long as you want without even doing any real damage."

"Unless that's what someone wants to do," she pointed out, "like the ones who almost killed you. Also, I don't know what you've been looking at, but most Muggles don't like violence."

"It may seem that way to you, because you're an idealist, and you want that to be true. Or maybe you have to think that because you don't want to admit that you're no better. When I first started studying Muggles, I thought they were essentially animals of above-average intelligence, and that wizards were different. I was wrong. We're all animals, and the only reason we think we're smarter than dogs and pigs and rats is because we can talk. But look where all that talking has gotten us, Granger."

"You can't possibly deny that humanity has made incredible advances in technology, literature, art, music, and everything else you can think of, especially Muggles."

"Exactly my point. We've got all that, and still all anybody wants to do is kill each other."

"Only certain kinds of people want to hurt others, and those people need help."

"That's true, but don't worry: I'm going to help you. Just tell me who you want to hurt first."

_I already know the answer to that one._

He was grinning, and she wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but she doubted it.

"We need to leave. I have work tomorrow."

"You're a liar, Granger. I only got to have one drink."

"Well, that's too bad. You don't need any more alcohol. Your brain is already addled enough."

"Can we come back here tomorrow night?"

"No."

"On the weekend, then?"

"No."

"You'll change your mind after a whole week of working at your shit job."

"You don't know the first thing about my mind or my job."

"I know a lot more than you'd like to admit about both."

* * *

There were many times in Hermione's life when she had to ask herself, _was it worth it?_ Sitting at her desk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, this was a pretty bad one. Was it worth it to interrogate Malfoy and take him in and bring him to the pub and call off her date, only to get a whole lot of mental turmoil in return? Her neck felt weak and tired, and she wondered if it was physically possible for confusion to be so intense that it traveled down from the brain to the spinal cord and corroded the vertebrae.

She thought she remembered last night accurately, but there was no way to be sure about that. She looked down at her quill, and the top of it was completely unrecognizable. She'd chewed it until the strands of the feather bent and matted all together.

_Like the threads._

She put it back in her mouth and dragged her teeth down it one more time, and they straightened, and then she threw it in the bin. She had plenty of quills.

_I told him he couldn't leave the couch except to use the bathroom. I wonder what he's thinking about right now._

"Miss Granger, are you all right?"

She turned to look at the door of her office, where her assistant, Penny, was looking worried.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You don't look well. Are you sure you should be at work?"

"Yes. This is exactly where I should be right now." Penny didn't look convinced, but she knew better than to argue.

"If you say so. Do you have your opinion prepared for the Bones suit?"

"Of course," Hermione said, pulling the folder she'd prepared out of her drawer. "We're throwing out the case, because the rose bushes are not encroaching far enough onto Morgenstern's property."

Her assistant stepped forward to take the folder. "That's a relief. If you don't mind my saying so, that case was a bit ridiculous."

"Do you have any more questions for me?"

"No, I'll go submit this resolution." She left the office quickly, and Hermione felt bad for taking her feelings out on Penny. She was very sweet and a bit shy, and she really seemed to look up to Hermione. Normally, she was happy to take the young girl under her wing and provide some encouragement, but today was different. She imagined that Malfoy had flung a little chip of his personality into her, and it was making her impatient and irritable. Or maybe he vomited a slug into her ear while she was asleep and it was taking over her brain, like in Animorphs or something.

She worked on her new round of cases for the rest of the day. The next one was slightly more interesting than flamingos v. rose bushes, but it still wasn't exactly riveting. An elderly man had slipped on a puddle in the Leaky Cauldron and broken his hip, and he was seeking damages for their negligence. The Cauldron maintained that the spill had been created just moments before by another patron; therefore, they could not have been expected to rectify the issue in time, and individuals who already have trouble walking should take special care when navigating busy pubs.

Hermione thought the Cauldron was right, but she did feel bad that the old man had broken his hip. Unfortunately, the man was also being a bit pushy about the whole thing, and his lawyer was trying to prove that the floor in the Leaky Cauldron was worn too smooth to be safe for such an establishment. The Cauldron's lawyers believed these allegations to be bullshit, to paraphrase, but they still had to prove it. So Hermione couldn't decide the case until a slip resistance test was conducted and the results were submitted. On the bright side, she reminded herself that at least she wasn't a slip resistance test conductor. In fact, there were probably plenty of jobs more boring and tedious than hers out there in the world. For example, she could work in a needle-counting factory, or a button-pushing plant, or maybe a drippy-sink research laboratory.

Moreover, she should be grateful for even having a job at all, with a fair wage and exemplary working conditions. People all around the world were denied those basic things. And here Hermione was, working for the government because she wanted to make things more fair for everyone, but she couldn't do that until some specialist came back to tell her just exactly how smooth the floor was in the Leaky Cauldron. It all felt so pointless sometimes.

When it was finally time to go home, she started thinking about Malfoy again on the way down to the Atrium, and she realised he was liable to be in an extremely foul mood after being magically chained to her couch for nine hours. She'd left him a sandwich for lunch, because she'd been in too much of a hurry that morning to make him anything more, but it wasn't a whole lot of food. She braced herself and stepped through one of the Floo exits, back into her flat.


	5. License & Registration

**Chapter 5: License & Registration**

Hermione didn't have to worry about Malfoy being in a foul mood because he was asleep. She threw her work robes on a chair and glared at him, all snuggled up on her couch. He got to sleep all day, and she had to rise early and work.

"It's six o'clock, Malfoy. Wake up."

"I'll wake up at night," he muttered into the couch cushion.

"You can't even sleep like a normal person?"

"Nighttime is the worst time to sleep, for a lot of reasons," he said, even though his eyes were still closed. "The darkness isolates your mind, and when you're cut off from reality, you can think of all sorts of different things without second-guessing yourself. Everything is so much more interesting in the dark and quiet. In the day, everything gets boring again, and the sunlight lulls you to sleep."

That made her think of the months after the War, when she could only sleep during the day because the nightmares weren't as bad when it was light out. "What do you do all night, then?"

"Here or in general?" His hair looked dirty, spread out on her white pillow. He was a living human stain.

"Both," she said.

"Here, I look out your window and watch that tree move. Before I arrived, I used to go out into the world and react to stimuli."

"That's a funny way to say 'get into fights,'" she said.

"I don't get in that many fights. That's only when I run out of other things to do. Most of the time, I talk to strangers until they tell me their deepest secrets. And sometimes," he opened his eyes in excitement, "I can even convince Muggles to let me ride in their cars."

"Beg pardon?" Of all the ways that sentence could have ended, she wasn't expecting that one. Perhaps he liked to loll his tongue and hang his head out the window like a dog.

"I like cars," he said. "Do you have one?"

"No."

"I'll buy you one if you'll drive me around in it. You know how to drive, right?"

"I've done it a few times, but I never got a license, and I'm not getting one and buying a car just so I can take you for a ride in it. I don't even have a place to keep it, and we'd have to insure it and everything." Hermione, as it happened, did not like cars. People got mangled in them so badly that only skilled professionals with sharp metal teeth could pull them out.

"Isn't there a way to rent one?"

"No, there isn't," she lied. There was no way to really be safe about it, either; even the best driver in the world couldn't stop a semi-truck running a red light. Even someone as particular and meticulous as Hermione Granger can't fix the breaks from the driver's seat when they fail on the M1 motorway.

"That's not true. I bet you can."

"No, Muggles won't let other Muggles borrow their cars. They're too expensive and easy to break."

He sat up half-way and eyed her warily. "I don't think I believe you."

"Tough. Are you hungry?" she asked.

"No, I think I've conquered hunger," he said, laying his head back down. "I'm really interested in this conversation, Granger, but can we continue it after the sun goes down?"

"Absolutely not. I sleep at night." She wasn't exceptionally good at it, but she always tried.

"You never used to. I couldn't go to the library after midnight without seeing you, back in school."

"That's because I had very important things to research, and the library was too busy during the day. I never saw you there, though," she added, giving him a sharp look.

"It almost sounds like you don't believe me," he said. She could tell from his tone that he didn't care whether or not she bought his story, which meant that it was probably true. He shoved one arm under the pillow and pressed it under his chin. "I didn't stay there. It was just one of the stops I made on my walks. That's what I used to do at night, you see, back when I was even less free."

"Every night?"

"Just about."

"How did you do that without getting caught?"

"I was good at it," he said. "But really, Granger, it's the middle of the day. I need my sleep. Are you sure we can't go out tonight?"

"Yes. I have work in the morning."

"All right, then this weekend."

"I already said no."

"You say a lot of things," he replied, burying his face in the pillow. If this was how he was going to behave, he could go another day without new clothes.

When she woke up the next morning, it was almost time for Malfoy to go to bed. He'd informed her that he was going to 'stay up late' in order to eat breakfast with her; as it turned out, he had been mistaken about having conquered hunger. Hermione found this considerably less surprising than he did.

She placed a bowl of cereal in front of him and turned to finish making her tea.

"Did you cash my cheque yet?" he asked, as he picked up his spoon.

"No, I haven't had time. What's the hurry?"

"Maybe you shouldn't," he said. The anger buzzed to life in her head.

"Oh, so you are planning on freeloading? What's wrong, is your family suddenly bankrupt or something?" Random colours flashed behind her eyelids, and she pressed against them with the heels of her hands.

"No, that's not it," he said. No matter what he was saying, he always sounded bored. In her flat he was like a case study, showing her the life of a man who cared about nothing. She'd have thought it would feel good, but she could see in his eyes that it didn't. If she had to guess, she would say that inside his head was a sound like static or dial tones or a car alarm two blocks away.

"Then why?" she asked. Her voice jumped pitch as she began to rant, as though just the right noise might filter through the grey wall he'd built over his mind. "_Why_ shouldn't I cash the cheque that you made out to me, for the rent that you owe me, for living in my flat and messing with my head and eating my food and being a blood-sucking parasite on my life?"

"I'm not sure yet. I've just got this feeling," he said. She turned around and –

_threw the cup of boiling water in his face._

– showed him her coldest stare. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"As I said, I don't know the whole story. Maybe you should read your _Daily Prophet_."

She jerked her neck in horror and followed his gaze into the living room. Her newspaper had been flung out of the Floo while she was fixing the food, and on the front page was a picture of Draco Malfoy. "Oh, no," she said.

"Believe me, I'm as surprised as you are that somebody cares I'm gone."

She didn't respond in her rush to snatch up the paper. The headline read: "DRACO MALFOY MISSING OVER FORTY-EIGHT HOURS – Family, Fiancée Fear the Worst." There were two smaller photos next to the larger shot of Malfoy, one of his parents and one of Astoria Greengrass.

_Aw, what's a poor little rich girl to do when her money source gets sick of her?_

"What's it say?" he asked from the kitchen. She was having trouble getting out the words, so she walked back in and handed it to him before sinking into the chair across from his. "Well, this could put a damper on things," he said after he'd read it. He pushed the paper in front of her, and she didn't miss the strange and incorrect implication that this was her problem.

She stared down into his black-and-white face. What she was doing was not taking in an unwanted roommate or even harbouring a fugitive; she was kidnapping. She had kidnapped Draco Malfoy, by accident. It was like how a charmingly clueless sitcom boyfriend might claim that he kissed another woman 'by accident.' Hermione had previously believed that both kidnapping and kissing were things that almost never occurred by happenstance.

"Well, I definitely can't cash your cheque," she said.

She knew now what people meant when they said that something 'just happened.' She finally found out how a person could make a big mistake and not even know it until after it was too late. She understood what it was like to dig yourself in deeper and deeper, while the situation spun out of control and she couldn't even see how she got in there anymore, much less how to get out.

"I'll find another way to get you some money. In the meantime, will you help me fake my own death?"

Her head snapped up. "You're not going to do that."

"If I don't, I'll have to leave. Don't you want to keep me as your pet forever?" His voice remained so brittle and dry that she had trouble discerning sarcasm, and she was forced to answer him seriously.

"First of all, no. Second, why would you want that? And finally, how could we even pull that off?"

"Can't you keep a secret?" Now she knew he was mocking her. His shoulders jerked, and he looked at the spoon in his hand like he'd never seen one before. He set it down without taking a bite.

"I thought you were after freedom," she said.

"I've come to realise that perhaps freedom isn't possible, so I chose a cage that I liked."

"Why do you like it here so much?" She didn't tell him so, but she was fairly certain that Malfoy did not like anything at all. His version of happiness must have meant a search for things that he hated slightly less than others. "You're stuck on a couch all day, and your only entertainment is trying to annoy me until I make you stop, and you certainly have never liked _me_."

"Nonsense, Granger. I've always liked you. I like your ice-cold logic and your unkempt nails and your snotty sense of superiority over the rest of humanity. I like your hatred and your control issues and your passion for revenge."

She looked down at her nails, and they weren't that bad. "That's not funny," she said.

"Am I laughing?" He nearly growled the last word, with a razor-edged smile. "Back to the issue at hand – if we don't fake my death, what are you going to do with me? Turn me in to the Ministry? You'd get in trouble, and I'd have to go back to my old life, and I don't think either of us wants that."

"I should have turned you in the morning after I found you." If she still had a Time-Turner, she wouldn't hesitate for a second.

"That's probably true. You didn't, and do you know why?"

"Temporary insanity brought on by such close proximity to your not-so-temporary kind."

"No, it's because you like our cage, too. Or, more accurately, you like your cage better now that I'm here."

"It wasn't one until you got here," she said, which wasn't true. She couldn't decide which was worse, if it was a choice between solitary confinement and a cellmate like him.

"That's not even close to accurate. In fact, I think you're just trying to hurt my feelings now." He said this as though such a thing were possible.

"Is it working yet?"

"Yes, if you must know. You've torn my heart asunder," he said, and she blinked at him until he couldn't keep a straight face anymore and switched to a toothy grin. "I told you all the things I like so much about you, and you won't even tell me one thing you like about me."

"You're the one who keeps telling me not to lie."

"Ouch. There must be at least one," he goaded. She appraised him.

_I like your body and your insanity._

"Sorry, I can't think of anything."

"We're living together in your flat, and it was your idea. Can't you think a little bit harder?"

_I like your table manners and your immunity to compassion._

"You didn't even say anything good about me. You told me my flaws." She suddenly remembered her tea and drank some. For his part, Malfoy didn't seem to be in touch with a reality that would allow him to eat his cereal.

"That's my favourite thing about you," he said, pressing flat palms into the table on either side of his bowl. "There are only so many good qualities a person can have, and they're all boring and common. I don't know anybody else whose flaws are as interesting as yours."

"In that case, I like how you think you're so much smarter than you actually are," she said. "I like your violence and your dishonesty and your sloth."

"That's much closer to the truth," he said, looking satisfied. "I think I've got better flaws than that, but maybe you don't know them yet."

"I suppose I've got something to look forward to," she said through her teeth.

He nodded and for a moment was quiet. "We still haven't decided what we're going to do about this."

"'We'?" she repeated.

"What else do you call two people, when you're one of them?"

"This is my problem, and you're an accessory. You are a complicating factor in my life."

He laughed as though she'd been joking. "There's no need to objectify me, Granger – I'm a person, too. At the very least, I am a fully-fledged problem of my own."

"Fine," she said. Normally she only ground her teeth at night, but talking to him brought it on outside her bed. Her jaw was aching, but she clenched it harder. "You are your very own problem, but that just makes me a person with a lot of problems."

"You're still avoiding it. What will you do with your problem?" he asked, pointing to himself.

"I'm not avoiding it – you're distracting me. That's another thing I _like_ about you: the only way you know how to have a conversation is by picking one or two words from whatever I just said and turning them around until they mean something else."

"I do that because it's funny, and also because you can't ever say just what you mean. You start with one thing, move onto something different, and close with something unrelated to either of the first two. I prefer to respond to just the last one, because it's usually the least important and the most interesting. Besides, you do the same thing to me."

"No, I don't."

"You just did. The difference is that I usually end with my most important point, whereas you start with yours. If you want me to stop, you'll just have to restructure your speech pattern or learn to say fewer words."

"I wish you said fewer words," she said. It wasn't a very good comeback, but she didn't have anything better.

"Wasn't that a bit petty?"

"You're the one who's talking in circles on purpose, and your solution is for me to streamline everything I say in advance until you have no choice but to communicate like a normal human being."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Stop it!" It was almost like a snarl, the noise that came out of her mouth. It didn't sound like her own voice at all.

"Stop what?" he asked, leaning forward.

She glanced down at the table again, and his picture stared back. Without thinking about it too hard, she lifted a hand and pounded her fist repeatedly onto his face.

"Are you sure I'm the person you want to hit?" he asked.

_No._

"I don't want to hit anyone," she said.

"You are, though."

"This is a newspaper." She brought her hand down one more time and spread her fingers to cover his face. "I'm taking out my anger about the situation. If I wanted to hit you, I could."

He nodded slowly. She expected him to say something more, but instead he smiled with his eyes wide open.

"I have to go to work," she said.

"We still haven't decided what we're going to do."

"That's because I don't know," she said. Her voice was back under her control, smooth and even like a woman who was calm under pressure. "I'll figure something out today." She stood and slammed her chair back in.

"Why are you so angry?"

She thought of denying it, but there wasn't any point. "Because of you," she said.

"I don't think that's why, but I imagine it's a relief to finally have an excuse." He raised his eyebrows.

She rubbed her temples, even though it never helped. Headaches didn't get enough credit for being such an unstoppable force of nature. "You always have to play psychologist."

"And how does that make you feel?" he asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully, and she almost hexed his hand right off.

She left the kitchen without another word and took the Floo to the Ministry. She wandered to her office and sat at her desk, where all her neatly-stacked documents waited boringly for her perusal. She grabbed a quill and managed to read the heading of the first page before her eyes glazed over.

She kept trying to read the material anyway, but little pieces of her hair kept coming out in her hands because she was too distracted to notice how hard she was pulling at it. All she could think of was what to do with Malfoy.

_Instead of faking his death, we could just do a real one._

The slip resistance test results were in, and it so happened that the floors in the Leaky Cauldron were too smooth to meet safety regulations. Nobody in the entire universe cared except Hermione.

_I could go on a whole murder spree one night, and take care of everybody who ever looked at me the wrong way._

She couldn't turn him in now because she would be at risk of losing her job, and she would definitely lose Malfoy. If she lost both of those things, she couldn't make rent. Obviously, given the option she'd rather get rid of –

_the job._

– Malfoy, but it might not be her choice if she didn't play it carefully. She couldn't kick him out because he didn't want to leave, and he could threaten to tell everybody where he'd been the past few days. In the process, it would be revealed to Harry and Ginny that the two of them and Malfoy had all been in her flat at the same time. They wouldn't forgive her right away for doing something so dangerous and dumb and then lying about it.

_In the morning, I'd watch the sunrise from the top of a mountain while the blood dried on my hands and arms, and then I'd sleep all day._

Her life would become difficult for probably a fairly long time, and it wasn't something she could handle at the present time. She'd have to find a way out in secret, especially since it was an understatement to say that Hermione Granger kidnapping Draco Malfoy and imprisoning him secretly in her flat would be 'big news.' It would be the biggest story to come out in years.

_Maybe I shouldn't kill Malfoy first. Maybe I should kill him last, so he could help. We'd probably make a good team for that sort of thing._

She tried to imagine how she'd react if Ginny were the one hiding Malfoy on her couch, but she couldn't get a clear picture now that she'd become disgustingly accustomed to his presence. She couldn't force herself to feel the same way about him as she did last week; she couldn't even remember what it was like to never want to see him again.

_If it wasn't for Malfoy, I'd be reading about slip resistance tests and actually caring because there wouldn't be anything to distract me._

She decided that she would be able to forgive Ginny, once the situation was explained. It had only been one weekend, after all.

_But I'm not done with him yet._

She needed more time to think and make sure she was doing the right thing. It was possible that if she waited a bit longer, she could come up with a much better solution.

_Such as keeping him._

She peeled back her lips and tapped her quill against her clenched teeth at an erratic rhythm, forcing her eyes to stay trained on the papers, until there was a knock on the frame of her open door. She bit down on the quill and looked up to find Penny, who looked frightened for some reason.

"What do you _want,_ Penny," she demanded, still baring her teeth.

"Nothing – never mind. It can wait," she said. She scuttled away, presumably to cry in a bathroom somewhere. Hermione would have been ashamed of herself for such unnecessary cruelty, but all of her brain was currently occupied with trying to think of a way to solve the problem on her couch.

Perhaps there was some way she could work out a trade with Malfoy, in exchange for his going back to Astoria and keeping secret where he'd been. She could probably forge proof that he was in Muggle hospital over the weekend, for some kind of freak accident.

At that point, she realised that she was seriously considering fabricating medical records to save her own reputation, which wasn't even in the same universe as the right thing to do. If someone had come to Hermione for advice on resolving the situation at hand, she would begin by shaming them for their stupidity. Afterward, she would tell them that honesty was the only option. The only way to emerge as an honourable person would be to come clean, take the heat for it, and work hard to reestablish a good track record.

She could remember more than one occasion when she'd told someone exactly that, but this wasn't somebody else. Other people made mistakes every day, and somehow everyone accepted it and forgave them. Hermione wasn't 'other people'-after so many long years of honesty and self-sacrifice and a spotless conscience, she had earned the right to one small lie. She'd definitely have to examine the situation more thoroughly before she did anything rash.

* * *

Hermione was in a white room, and all the walls were covered in doors. It looked like they were numbered from a distance, but at close range they dissolved into a haze. She walked around the whole room and touched all the dozens of doorknobs until one of them felt right. She turned it slowly, and it opened, and there was Ron. He stood in the centre of an identical white room that was covered in identical doors.

"Hermione," he said, "I'm sorry."

"That's not good enough, Ronald."

"Is there any way I can make it up to you?"

She stepped forward and touched his cheek with her left hand, and he closed his eyes to relish the contact because that was how much he trusted her. Then, she pulled back her right fist and clocked him.

She closed her eyes as a strange wind rushed around her and an alien buzzing noise filled her ears, and when she opened them she was sitting up in her bed. She read the date on the digital face of her clock and wanted to cry: she'd been holding Malfoy in some kind of bizarre mutual hostage situation for an entire week. The worst part was that they'd developed a routine.

She'd have breakfast with him in the morning, and he'd go to sleep when she went to work. When she came home, she would make an unsuccessful attempt at waking him up, have dinner alone, and crawl into bed as she heard him turn on the water. Once he was in the shower, she'd get back up to clean his clothes with her wand and set out some food before going back to sleep. They still hadn't found a way for him to access his family's money without the transaction being traced, and she wasn't about to dig into her own savings to buy Malfoy some new clothes. Nigel had owled her twice to reschedule their date; she hadn't responded, and so he gave up.

Meanwhile, the rest of the wizarding world was still searching high and low for their precious alcoholic-ferret-Death-Eater creature. Like all other lost things, he was in the last place they'd ever look. After she'd showered and dressed for work, she joined him at the kitchen table.

"Morning, Granger," he said.

"You've been here for a whole week," she said. "How are you still here?" It was obviously rhetorical, but he answered anyway.

"You still want me around."

"I never wanted you around, and I never will."

"Then, how am I still here?" he asked back. "And why are you all dressed up?" He looked her up and down, pressing his lips to his mug without drinking.

"For work, stupid," she said. She'd been regressing lately, in terms of her word choice and motor skills. She might as well have been yelling 'you're not the boss of me!' or comparing the two of them to rubber and glue, respectively.

"You don't have work today. It's Saturday."

"Oh, right," she said, looking down at her work robes. It was nice to have a day off, except that she'd basically taken the whole week off.

She was still working on the Leaky Cauldron case, even though all the documentation was ready. She just didn't feel like reading it. Whenever someone asked how she was doing, she'd tell them that she was still reviewing all the information, and they just believed her like a bunch of mindless ducklings following their mother. Their misplaced and boundless trust was irritating, mostly because it was easier to get mad at them for trusting her than it was to be disappointed in herself for lying to them.

"I've been thinking," Malfoy began, folding his hands on the table in a businesslike manner.

She concentrated on making her tea, hoping that obvious boredom might shut him up. Anger only encouraged him, and she wasn't about to act interested.

"And I have an idea," he continued. She made a bored noise in her throat. "You sleep at night, and I sleep in the day when you're gone." He paused, and still she said nothing. "How many beds would we need for that, do you figure?" She finished filling the teapot and placed it on the stove. "I've done the math, and I keep coming up with one." She turned the stove to high heat and opened the cupboard. "Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Not really," she said, once she'd selected a teacup and placed it on the counter.

"Yes, you do." She was pleased to hear emotion in his voice. He could only keep up the calm visage when she was the angry one.

"You know, I wasn't really listening," she said. "What were you saying?"

"I want to sleep in your bed when you're at work instead of on the couch." At last, he was approaching the anger she needed to see. She couldn't keep tolerating him if he refused to reveal his rage.

"Hm," she said again, waiting as she scanned the flavours of tea.

"Granger, I know you're listening to me."

"Right." She heard his chair squeak as he pushed it back. His footsteps closed in behind her until she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She shivered and edged forward.

"You don't really think you can keep that up, do you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. Her vision snapped in and out of focus, and she could no longer read the tea labels anymore.

"I know all your buttons by heart," he said in her ear.

"Hm," she murmured one more time.

He punched the air on either side of her shoulders with both hands, and it thrilled and revolted her in equal parts. She latched onto the counter to pull herself away, but he closed the distance again.

"Come on, Granger. All I have to do is stand near you, and you jump out of your skin. Don't waste your time trying to pretend you can ignore me when you so obviously cannot."

She turned to face him, and he smiled without his eyes. "I'm trying my best to pretend you're not here because I wish you weren't," she said.

"Be careful about saying that. One of these days, I might just take you at your word."

"You mean one of these days you might actually believe something I say instead of accusing me of lying?"

"No, I mean that I might choose to believe your lie, despite knowing what it is, because you said it one too many times."

She gave a derisive laugh. "Are you really _threatening_ to leave? That's like threatening children with sweets, Malfoy. I want nothing more than for you to leave."

"I'm keeping track of every time you say that, Granger, and you're getting closer and closer to the magic number."

"Well, could you help me out and tell me what that is? How close am I? Get out, get out, get out."

"I have a very high tolerance," he said, finally dropping his arms. "But everybody has a breaking point."

The tea kettle gave a shrill whistle, and she sidestepped Malfoy and took it off the heat. He hovered over her shoulder, and she threw up a hand to shoo him away.

"You have my attention again, all right? You don't have to be so obnoxious anymore."

"Thank goodness. That's all I ever wanted," he said, and she heard him return to the table and sit down. "So, about your bed."

"No. Under no circumstances can you ever sleep in my bed, so stop asking." She wanted to pour the tea, but her hands were shaking too badly to get a firm grip.

"You're not even using it when I want to. Don't you think you're being a bit selfish?"

"You're not paying rent," she reminded him.

"Not because I don't want to."

"A lot of people want to do a lot of things." Realising those desires was so rare that adults learned to stop wanting impossible things. Someday, she hoped Malfoy would become an adult.

"If I can't sleep in your bed, can we go to the pub tonight?"

"No."

"Why, have you got other plans? Another boring date, maybe?"

"No."

"So, that means your options are spending time with me here, inconveniently sober, or spending time with me at a pub."

Unless she went somewhere without him, he was right, and she wasn't about to leave him unsupervised for the privilege of going to the pub alone on a Saturday night.

"Fine, why not?" she said. "I'm living a lie, so I might as well get drunk with my worst enemy, unless I get lucky and the world careens into the sun before the day is out."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'll be as dramatic as I want," she said, back on the playground. He didn't say anything more, so she figured he'd earned his breakfast and fixed him some cold cereal.

He ate it and bade her an ironic 'good night' before passing out on her couch, while she finished her tea at the table. Especially considering the negligible amount of work she'd finished over the course of the week, she should have used the time to get some more done. Instead, she went to the Muggle market and Diagon Alley to do her shopping for the week. She managed to waste the entire day in that lazy way where she didn't even know where the hours went.

Malfoy woke at nine o'clock, which was actually quite early for him. She wished she'd had a lie-in that morning because she was beginning to feel drowsy, which meant she'd have to watch her alcohol intake.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked, joining her in the kitchen.

"No, I have to change," she said.

"This is supposed to be fun, Granger. Quit acting like you're about to get the Kiss."

She didn't need his help figuring out how to act. She went to her bedroom and chose an attractive dress.

"Not bad," he said when she walked back out, and she almost wanted to go put on a tracksuit instead.

"I didn't ask for your opinion."

She pocketed her wand and marched out the door, locking it with her Muggle key after he followed. They walked downstairs in silence, and the pub was much busier that night.

As soon as a drink was in her hand, she realised how much she wanted to escape from reality. She drank her first one almost as fast as Malfoy. She had another and another. He may have convinced her to go shot for shot, but it was unclear past a certain point.

_And, your Honour, that's the last I recall._


	6. Search & Seizure

"_It's one thing to want someone out of your life, but it's another thing to serve them a wake-up cup full of liquid drainer."_

_- Veronica Sawyer, _Heathers

**Chapter 6: Search and Seizure**

Hermione was in the white room again. She could read the numbers on the doors this time, but they were all marked _61001_. She chose one at random and he was there, but this time he wasn't standing. Ron was on his knees with his hands tied behind his back and a scarf over his eyes.

"Who's there?" He swung his head back and forth. He couldn't see.

"It's only me," she said, and he sagged with relief. She raised her leg and kicked him soundly in the back of the head, and he fell forward and landed on his face.

The image faded away, and Hermione sank into darkness and guilt. She wondered if Ron was unconscious, if she'd done any permanent damage and if she might have wanted to, but then the numbness passed and she crossed back into reality. She opened her eyes and tried to push herself up in bed, but she was in too much pain. Her skin didn't fit right over her bones. The pressure in her chest blocked her lungs, and her forearms and the backs of her hands stung as they brushed against the fabric of her comforter. She let out a hopeless moan as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then she carefully lifted a hand up to her face. Her nails were caked with dried blood, and she wasn't sure whose it was, and deep scratches ran down the length of her exposed flesh. Then, the panic came.

She threw herself off the bed and searched the room with wide animal eyes. She'd been asleep on top of the blankets, still wearing her short dress. Bruises were forming on her arms with the scratches, and she wasn't sure whether she was going to throw up or pass out. She sat back down on the bed until the room stopped spinning. She couldn't remember anything past going to the pub with Malfoy.

_Malfoy_. She took him in, and as soon as she was too drunk to stop him, he beat her bloody. She forced herself to stand up more slowly this time, and then she stumbled down the hall into her living room, where he was sleeping like nothing happened. He must have been drunk, too, to be sleeping at night. A curious calm came over her, and she stepped in front the couch and studied him. His shirt was spotted with blood, but he seemed uninjured. His hands rested on his chest like in a casket, and his knuckles and nails were clean.

"Wake up," she said. He didn't stir. "_Wake up_."

He opened his eyes and looked her up and down, and he was _smiling_. She was going to kill him.

_and then myself._

"I'd say good morning, but I don't think it's morning yet," he said, glancing at the window. Hermione realised she had no idea what time it was, but it was still dark outside.

"What did you do to me?" She could feel the muscles in her chest and neck tensing with anger. She could be stretched no tighter. He rolled off the couch and stood over her.

"I put you to bed," he said, still infuriatingly calm. "And it hurt quite a bit, but you couldn't make it up the stairs." He lifted his hands to display the insides of his arms, and the skin was red and raw and peeling all the way from his palms to his shoulders. "I'm going to have to add your impossible obstinacy to the list of things I like about you – even when you couldn't walk, you still said I couldn't carry you. The only thing you'd let me touch was your key."

"What happened to me?" she demanded. She was dizzy again.

"Don't you remember?" he asked, with an unsettling grin.

"I think it's rather obvious that I don't."

"You got in a fight, Granger," he said. He sounded disgustingly amused.

"Is that what you're going to call it?" As if words mattered. "Tell me what you did to me."

"I didn't do anything except watch, and it's a pity you don't remember. You should see the other girl," he said. "I believe I've already told you how much I like those nails of yours."

"No," she said, shaking her head. Her skin was cold, but her blood was hot. A cold glass filled with hot water will shatter. "You won't let you give me some fucked up fake memory you're building in your brain."

"How could I have done this if I can't touch you?"

"You said you carried me to my bed!"

"And look what I got for it." He showed her his palms again before closing his hands and turning them over. "Tell me, what part of your body do you hit somebody with?" She wasn't going to answer such a stupid question out loud, so she looked at his knuckles, which were still white and unblemished. "That's right. As I learned tonight, I get burned more the harder I push against you. I can prove it."

Without warning, he wound up gracefully and his fist connected with her shoulder, and she stumbled a half-step back. She rubbed the point of impact, but it didn't really hurt. She knew it wasn't anywhere near the best he could do.

_Does he think I can't take it,_

She stared in shock as he flexed and contracted his hand, hissing with pain.

_or is he just lazy?_

He held it up for her inspection, and most of the skin had been torn from his knuckles. She saw bone and looked away.

"If I'd hit you hard enough to bruise, I wouldn't have any skin left. You got in a fight, and it wasn't with me."

She was almost ready to break, and she pushed past him to the sofa. She pressed her spine against the arm and straightened her legs across the cushions. Malfoy sat just past her feet and watched her with a strange intensity.

"What's wrong with you?"

"You put on quite an exciting show tonight," he said, as though that were an acceptable answer.

"Did I hurt someone?" she asked, even though she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"Yes, you did." As a matter of fact.

"I…"

_wish I could remember what it felt like._

"What's happening to me?" She didn't give him time to answer because she was afraid that for once he'd tell the truth. "This is all your fault."

"I didn't make you do anything," he said. "I didn't even make a suggestion."

For a man who had accomplished nothing, he seemed quite pleased with himself. "I never would have thought of fighting someone if it wasn't for you."

"I don't think that's true in general, but I suppose you wouldn't have thought of this particular fight if it wasn't for me." He flashed his teeth, and it was scary in the dark.

"I don't have time to play games with you," she said. Time didn't seem as predictable anymore, but she was almost certain it was running out. "You will tell me what happened."

He turned his face down and inspected his ruined hand. "Another woman was trying to take your man, and you told her to back off. She didn't listen, and she had a few unflattering opinions about you – all of which were incorrect, by the way. She was asking for it."

For a fragment of second, she almost believed him. "She was trying to take my _what_?"

"Your man," he repeated, his voice low and dangerous, and there was a strange tug in her stomach.

"I haven't got one of those."

"That's not what you said earlier."

"What exactly do you think I said?" With her eyes shut, she could pretend it wasn't real. She could imagine that she was the only thing that existed, and everything else was some wretched trick she played on herself to use up the hours in an infinite void. She felt him move, and she opened them to see that he had crawled carefully past her legs and leaned in much too close, one arm braced behind her, just barely avoiding contact. He looked at her face, and she realised that she must look a mess.

"You said, 'he's mine,' and you were referring to me."

"I don't believe you," she said. She pulled back, but he followed to put himself just as close, this time hovering along her jaw and then down her neck. Her head tipped back.

"That's too bad because it's true," he said. His breath was burning holes in her skin.

"You're a liar," she gasped.

"That's not very nice," he said. She was going to catch fire or explode if he didn't stop breathing on her like that. She couldn't remember the word for

_don't_

stop. She couldn't think of how to ask for

_less_

space.

"You are, though. There's no other word for someone who lies as much as you do." She could barely hear her own voice over the violent bang and crash of her heart. She thought her ribs might crack.

"But I'm always so sure of what I'm saying."

"Then you admit it?"

"No, that was a general statement. My summary of tonight is fact."

His breath was hitching and quickening near her collarbone. He picked up his free hand, the one with the torn-up knuckles, and held it so close over her ankle that she could feel the heat of his burned palm, and he moved it through space above her bare skin. She watched as it floated all the way up to her hip and then lingered over her thigh.

He picked his head up, and his pupils were so large that his eyes looked black. "Tell me I can touch you."

_Touch me._

It almost sounded like an order, and he was holding himself above her so imposingly that it was almost enough to make someone forget who was in control.

"Tell me what really happened tonight," she said.

"I already told you that, and you were right," he said. "I'm all yours. Say I can touch you."

_Touch me!_

"But nobody ever said I was yours." She closed her eyes again to find comfort in the void. He made a noise like a growl.

"You don't have to be," he said. His voice was distorted, and was it sound waves that broke underwater or was that only light or did they all stay whole but change direction? "Just let me touch you."

_TOUCH ME_

His body was completely rigid, so tense she could see the muscles twitching under his skin, and every part of him was as close as it could get without quite breaking the rules.

"You know how to ask nicely," she said. She saw him bite the insides of his cheeks, but he didn't need to think about it too long.

"May I _please_ touch you," he ground out, and she looked down at his hand near her thigh.

"You can touch my hands."

It wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. He dragged his fingers across her palm, watching her face carefully, and she stifled her reaction. He rubbed the scratches on her knuckles until the cuts reopened.

"Why don't you just tell me I can touch your mind?" he asked. He was quite angry now, for a man who couldn't feel.

"What do you mean?" She had a high pain tolerance, and she kept a straight face.

"You're a brain in a jar, Granger. Can you even feel this?" He dug his short nails into the shallow wounds, and she clenched her teeth.

"Yes. It hurts."

"You'd never know." He bent her ring finger as far as the joint would allow before letting it snap back into place. "Would you rather lose your whole body or just one tenth of your brain?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

"That is the dumbest thing that anyone has ever asked me."

"It's not dumb. It's just pointless because I already know the answer."

"You can't touch my hands anymore," she said. He dropped her finger.

"I guess it doesn't really matter. This –" he held his hand above her shoulder – "is the same as this –" and pressed it down with a grimace and a burst of orange light –"is the same as this." He took his hand off her shoulder and touched the side of the couch.

She narrowed her eyes, seeing spots from the flash and trying to decide if she should be offended. "What are you saying?"

"Those things didn't feel the same to me, but they were all the same to you. You want to make your nerve endings ask politely before you'll let them feel."

"That's not possible."

"I'm well aware, and doesn't that just disappoint you every day? Even if you could gather up everything and everybody else in the whole world and bend them to your will, you'd still be trapped in that fleshy cage, and you can never be in complete control of it," he taunted. He lifted his eyes to stare at the centre of her forehead. "Would you be happier in a jar, Granger's brain?"

"That's enough!" Her hands seemed to unfreeze, and she threw him to the other side of the couch. He grinned like a hunter. She perched on the cushions like a bird.

"While your hands were on my chest, did you happen to notice what I feel like?"

"No."

"Then you should try again and find out. Maybe we're going about this backwards. How about you touch me?"

"I don't want to."

"Well, aren't we just a couple of liars?"

"Then you _were_ lying."

"I wasn't lying about that, although it is getting hard for me to tell when I'm lying by your standards." He cocked his head again. It was the same thing she would see if his neck were broken.

"Words have definitions, Malfoy!" She was half-screaming and half-pleading, begging him to understand both what she was saying and what she wished she could say instead and to be able to separate the two. "People don't run around with their own individual conceptions of what they all mean. I have the same standards as the rest of the world, minus you. If you say something that isn't true, then you're lying."

"Yes, they do, and everything I say is true."

"No, it's not."

"What are your standards for truth?"

"Truth is an absolute concept. Either something happened or it didn't. I said something or I didn't. It's there or it's not."

"We've already talked about your absurd penchant for absolute concepts," he said. "There aren't nearly as many of those as you seem to think there are. Aren't you the one who's lying when you tell me anything about earlier tonight, considering you don't remember it?"

"No, that's not what I meant. A lie is when you say something that contradicts your best knowledge of the truth."

"So, if you and I were in a hypothetical vacuum where we both knew the whole truth about the whole universe, and either of us said anything, then we'd be lying."

_I _am_ the whole universe._

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly what I'm saying, and that's why I say these things to you. I know that no matter how many times you call me crazy, you're still one of the only people in the world who can really understand what I mean."

"No, I think there are even fewer of those people than you think." She was still up on her knees, and he leaned toward her again with eyes that shone in the dark.

"Are you sure? Am I overestimating you? This is your last chance, then, and don't think I'm bluffing. If you honestly don't know what I'm talking about, then I won't ever speak to you again. I'm not asking if you agree with me, but do you understand or not?"

It was a strange question, and it hit her harder than she would have thought. She could tell he was serious, and she wasn't going to let him think she was too stupid to wrap her head around his entry-level psychology drivel.

"Of course, I understand," she said, rolling her eyes.

Her response satisfied him more than she'd intended. "Are you really that afraid of life without me?"

"Why would you think that?"

"I thought you were going to stop playing dumb."

She was losing ground fast, and it was time to retreat. "I think I'm feeling well enough to heal us now. Stay here."

"I'll stay with you 'til my seas are dry," he said serenely. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it.

"What's that from?"

"A Muggle song."

"It's wildly inappropriate."

"That's why it's funny. I like that line – there a few different ways to interpret it."

"I can only think of one," she said, stepping off the couch. She walked to her bedroom without looking back.

"That's not true," he called after her. "You tell people such a very small portion of your thoughts."

She turned on the light in her bedroom, and it burned her eyes until they could adjust.

"That's because they don't ask," she called back. "I'm not one of those people who just unloads everything on anybody who'll stay still long enough." She checked the bed first, but it wasn't there. She moved the pillows and ruffled the blankets.

"Are you talking about me?"

"Yes." She pulled open her nightstand drawer and found Malfoy's wand but not her own. She could use his if she had to, but she would rather not.

"Do you want me to stop, then?" he called. He sounded amused.

"Yes!" She was starting to panic again as she threw the blankets off her bed. She felt her pocket frantically, but there was nothing. She hurried into the living room, and Malfoy was watching her with interest.

"Did you lose something?" he asked.

"I am clearly looking for my wand."

"You're right, I guess that should have been obvious," he said.

She couldn't think of anywhere else it could be unless she'd lost it at the pub, and that would be a disaster. Not only was her wand lost, but it could be in the hands of an unsuspecting Muggle. She felt empty without it. Malfoy was grinning again, and she was getting sick of it, and then she knew why.

"Wait a minute. Do you know where my wand is?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, actually I do," he said. She could tell he was stifling his laughter with difficulty.

The world had shrunk too small, and other people were taking up the space that should have been hers, and she was crunched into a corner so cramped it broke her bones. She couldn't bear it in silence anymore. She clenched her fists and threw her head back and wailed at the ceiling because it was all too much to take. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, once she was airless and crumpled back up.

"You didn't ask," he said. She got the joke, but it wasn't funny.

"How can you act like this? What is - _how could you_ - are you - oh, _god!_" She tore at her hair with both hands and screamed again, and he just sat and watched.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked.

"No! You're still here!"

"Are you sure that's the problem?"

"Where is my wand?" she asked, one last time.

He didn't answer quickly enough, and she was screaming and clenching her hands in front of her chest. Her heart went fast and faster, like the deer as the car comes at it, and there were shaking black borders at the edges of the world. She was a misshapen mass of nerve endings and flaming cells and blood and guts, howling into the dark at a grinning lunatic. Fully transformed, she wasn't the brightest witch of anybody's anything. She was an animal who could talk, and it wasn't getting her anywhere.

The smile faded slowly off Malfoy's face, and she could see his excitement as he watched her. "Get up!"

He moved so slowly that the sound waves bent around him. He held his hand above her shoulder again, and she was still breathing so hard it shook her whole body. "Can I touch you now?"

_YES_

"Where's my wand?"

"Can I touch your lungs? Can I touch your ribs? Can I touch your teeth?" He moved both hands to hover over where all those things would be.

"Tell me where my wand is," she said.

"How about your eyeballs? Your eardrums?" His hands came to a stop on either side of her head, and she slapped them away. "Say it. Can I touch you?"

"_Yes!_"

Before she even fully comprehended what she'd said, his hands swallowed her whole. He slammed into her, and her scratches stung and her bruises ached, and she pushed back harder. He reduced his mouth to fine particles against hers in something that may have had a passing similarity to a kiss. She heard the animal noises again, and images flashed into her mind as she dragged her nails across his back. She remembered what the girl looked like as she dug oozing gutters into the outsides of her arms. She remembered tearing out sections of soft hair and making use of her elbows.

She didn't feel guilty. She felt hands and mouth and muscle and bone.

* * *

Hermione was going to kill every bird. She'd kill them with her wand, she'd kill them with a gun, and she'd kill them with her hands until the whole genus was extinct. And then they'd _stop chirping_.

She opened her eyes slowly and sat up on her elbows, but her vision wouldn't clear. She remembered that there were worse noises in the world than birds.

"Now we can say good morning," said an unwanted voice from the floor beside her bed. She might have said something, but her throat was too dry and scratchy to talk just for the sake of it.

Her fractured memories of the previous night came back in increments, and she surveyed the damages. Her clothing was intact, and the scratches and bruises didn't seem as bad in the logical daylight. She remembered pushing Malfoy onto the floor and fighting about whether he could stay in her bed, and apparently he hadn't returned to the couch.

"Where is my wand?" she asked as loudly as she could, but it didn't sound commanding. It sounded squeaky and sad.

"It rolled under the couch." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and he was smiling again. She stepped on his chest as she left the room. "That's no way to treat your man," he called after her.

"That's not what you are, and you were in my way," she replied hoarsely as she dropped to her knees to search under the furniture.

Her wand was near the front of the sofa, and she pressed her cheek to the carpet in relief. As she reached for it, she thought of something else about last night: it had been Saturday, which meant that today was Sunday. She stood and checked the clock and almost screamed again, because she wasn't an action movie heroine at all. She was ditzy eye candy in a bad teen slasher flick. Malfoy ambled out of her bedroom, just in time to eat some of her anger.

"What's wrong?" he asked. In her defense, it was a stupid question.

"What isn't wrong? My friends are going to be here in four hours, I got in some kind of drunken catfight last night, my life is in shambles, and most importantly you're still here."

"I think you should be drunk more often," he said. "You're a lot nicer. It's all right, though – I know how you really feel now." He scratched his stomach under his shirt and yawned.

"Nothing I said last night means anything. I was smashed." She didn't even know what she had said. It could have been anything.

He stepped closer and reached his arms over his head, arching his spine like a cat in the sun. "On the contrary, nothing you're saying right now means anything because you're sober enough to lie."

"I am never drinking again," she said.

"That's what they all say." His face was a blank slate except a smile so insincere it almost seemed decorative. He was behind his wall of static again, where nothing real could reach him.

_I want to go there, too. I think I'm getting close._

She pressed her palm into her aching head. "Do you know how to make coffee the Muggle way?"

"I do, actually," he said. His mandatory Muggle Studies class must have included a few days of magic-free living.

"Then do it, and make it strong," she said. "Don't touch anything you don't need for making coffee. I'm going to take a shower." She walked past him to her bedroom and chose some clean clothes. She took them to the bathroom and locked the door, and she could no longer avoid her reflection.

Her hair was a tangled mess, her mascara was dried into her cheeks, and her eyes were dull and red. Her lower lip was split open, but she didn't think she'd been hit in the mouth; if possible, there was an even worse reason for that bloody lip because it probably involved Malfoy's teeth.

The nausea came again. She had just enough time to grab a clip off the sink to hold up her hair before she was hugging the toilet, and the stomach acid stung her lips. She leaned against the bathtub, covered in cold sweat and trying to figure out how she'd fallen so far, so fast. Nothing she'd done in the entire past week was like her at all, especially the last twenty-four hours. It felt like she was turning into someone else. She didn't like this new person, but from her horrible new perspective she didn't like her old self any better.

For once, Malfoy had been right: everyone had a breaking point. She had been pushing herself forward all these years along the logical track of her future, and it had never been an option to stop or turn around. She had been too proud and afraid to ask for help when she still could have, with her turbulent emotional state or Malfoy or anything else. It had seemed irrelevant to ask herself if she was happy, but now it was obvious. Happy people don't go looking for danger, because they have something to lose.

She wasn't feeling sick anymore now that she'd purged her stomach, and it was time to analyze the situation a bit more objectively. She had her wand, and she could heal herself, and there was no reason to tell anyone about last night. She would be pleasant and friendly to Harry and Ginny, and they would do most of the talking. Tomorrow morning, she would go to work and decide the Leaky Cauldron case. But there was still Malfoy.

She repaired the skin on her arms and lips and brushed her teeth thoroughly and took a shower. She dressed and dried her hair, despite the ions, and put on a fresh coat of mascara. But there was still Malfoy.

He handed her a cup of coffee when she walked into the kitchen, and she eyed it suspiciously.

"I don't know where you keep the poison, Granger," he said. He clinked his mug against hers and took a drink.

_To our health._

"Would you poison my coffee if you did?"

"I didn't say that. I bet you don't have any, or you would have used it on me by now."

"I can't do that," she said. She clutched the warm ceramic against her chest with both hands, breathing in the smell. "What would I do with the body?"

"You've seriously considered killing me, haven't you?" he asked, grinning, and she noticed his shirt was still blood-speckled. She generally avoided looking at his face too much because it was annoying, but it was becoming very obvious that he hadn't shaved in over a week.

_He really needs to, though. It irritates my skin._

"I've considered many different options," she said. She edged past him to sit at the table, and he invited himself along.

"Let me see if I have this right: you're saying that killing people to make your own life easier is, in fact, an option."

"No. I'm not considering killing anyone, seriously or otherwise." She checked the clock, and she had two hours. She would have nothing to say at dinner.

_What's going on with me? Well, last night I almost shagged my new flatmate, Draco Malfoy, but then I came to my senses and kicked him in the stomach, which is not to say that I didn't want to because I definitely did. When he landed on the floor, I could hear him trying not to vomit from the impact._

"Who's coming over?"

_I've been avoiding doing any actual work at my job for an entire week, I got so smashed I couldn't even remember using my nails to teach some girl a lesson about trying to steal that person I keep saying I don't want, I'm having vivid dreams about breaking Ron's face,_

"That's none of your business."

_and I don't even feel bad about it. Enough about me, how's James?_

"Yes, it is. This is my flat, too."

He poured some of her sugar into the coffee she'd given him and stirred it with his forefinger, while she gaped at him. "No, it isn't."

He put his finger in his mouth and sucked it clean. "How can you still be in denial about this? I've lived here for over a week, I have no plans to ever leave, and I'm getting closer and closer to sleeping in your bed," he said. She knew he was talking about more than just sleeping.

"Just because we're trapped here together doesn't make this flat yours. You still aren't paying rent."

"I'll pay you back as soon as I can figure out how to get some money," he said. She'd heard that one before. "Right now, we can't risk having my parents find out I'm still alive."

"We can't let them think you're dead, though. I already told you we're not faking your death."

"Not directly, I suppose, but we are definitely faking my death by omission. Unless you want me to write my family a letter and fill them in on the recent events in my life?"

"No."

_No, no, no, this is all wrong_.

"Then I think that counts as helping me fake my death."

_It should always be how it is at night, when no one exists except us._

"It doesn't." She refused to think of it that way. It was already too much.

_I wish it was night all the time._

"Fine, I guess you're some kind of death-faking expert, then," he said. "I wouldn't want to let any actual facts get in the way of however you're rationalizing this situation."

"Excuse me? You're the one who keeps inventing pretend memories and trying to plant them in my brain. I'm not sure you're even acquainted with the concept of reality, and yet somehow you feel comfortable lecturing me about facts and rational thinking." She had forgotten all about her coffee, and it was losing heat fast against her hand.

"My memories aren't any more or less pretend than anybody else's." She took sip of cold liquid to occupy her mouth, so she wouldn't be tempted to answer. "So, who's coming over?"

"I've already told you. My friends."

"Which ones?"

"You don't need to know that. You'll be in the closet again anyway."

"I guess that's necessary," he said gamely. "If Harry Potter found out I was here, he'd tell everybody I'm alive, and I don't want to see him anyway."

"What makes you think I'm talking about Harry?"

"How many friends have you got, Granger?"

"That's a very rude thing to say."

"I'm just asking. I mean, I don't have too many friends besides you."

"I'm not your friend."

He raised his eyebrows. "You're calling me rude?"

"I'm just stating a fact. We aren't friends."

He nodded and drummed his fingers on the table. "I see. There's only one thing that confuses me, then: you have the power to make me shut up, but you don't."

She hadn't considered it, actually. It hadn't occurred to her at all, but she didn't have time to think about it right then. "If I can't get rid of you, I might as well get some shoddy conversation out of the deal."

"You don't want to get rid of me," he said. There was victory in his eyes. "Not even a little bit."

"I want to get rid of you more than I have ever wanted anything else in my life." In that moment, she meant it. It could have been the most honest thing she'd said in days, if she had been able to admit that she wasn't talking about Malfoy.

_That could mean anything._

"Don't forget, I'm still counting."

She swallowed the rest of her coffee, stone cold. "I think you should go in the closet now."

He finished his, too, which must have been even colder but sweeter. "If I have to," he said. "I'd tell you to think about me while I'm in there, but I don't need to."

_I'd do anything for something good to think about._

"I wouldn't anyway."

_I've already proved that._

"Whatever you say."

She slammed her empty coffee cup down on the table so hard it almost cracked, and she led him back into her bedroom, and he had really been spending way too much time there lately.


	7. Jaywalking

**Chapter 7: Jaywalking**

There was something Hermione had noticed back in school, and it still held true years later: life became harder as a person came closer to Draco Malfoy. This was not in any way referring to an emotional state of closeness, but merely fully-clothed physical proximity. Having Malfoy in her flat made it hard to cook dinner. It was hard to read, hard to clean, and hard to think.

She managed to do these things anyway, but not as well as she'd previously been able. For example, the chicken was burnt around the edges and the rice was undercooked. She finished setting the table just as Harry and Ginny arrived, and she served dinner immediately because she didn't have the energy for living room small talk. It was like the sound of their voices was muffled somehow, like her ears were set to the wrong frequency. All she could do was nod when it seemed appropriate, but then Harry's volume spiked as he brought up a new subject.

"Weird about Malfoy, isn't it?" he asked conversationally. Hermione managed not to drop her fork, but it was a near miss.

"Yeah, have you heard anything about it in your Department?" Ginny asked. Hermione forced herself to answer as calmly and accurately as possible. The wording made it possible to be honest; if the question had been more along the lines of, 'is Draco Malfoy hiding in your bedroom closet _as we speak_?' then, yes – she would have lied. After all, she was already in the process of building such a tall and heavy lie pile in a house of secrets.

_and 'truth' doesn't mean what I thought it did._

"Not much," she said. "I think Harry would still know more than I would – it hasn't gotten up to our Department_._"_ Yet_, she realised. When they didn't find Malfoy or his body anywhere, the search would inevitably work its way up the food chain. "Most people think he's dead," she added impulsively.

_especially me; I am almost certain that he is dead._

She felt guilty for saying it, even though it was true. As a recently-recognised expert in the field, she could easily spot a bit of death-faking by omission.

The Potters were both too mature to say what they were thinking, but they didn't have to. There was an uncomfortable silence, during which she could read the reply on their faces: _big loss_. She scowled at her plate because really it would have been. Didn't they realise how boring and mundane the world would be without him? Didn't they see that without him, all a person would have to think about were rose bushes, lawn flamingos, slip resistance tests, and useless echoes of the past?

_and fear and anger and escape. He makes us look alive by comparison._

They didn't, though, because they weren't any such persons. It was only Hermione who benefited from the continued existence of Draco Malfoy, while simultaneously hoping it would end, if that made any sense, which it didn't. Nothing had made her feel sane for some time now, and Hermione was starting to fear that it never would again.

"Well, some trace of him is bound to turn up eventually," Ginny said. "There's hardly a witch or wizard in the country who wouldn't recognize him on sight. That is, unless he's dyed that ridiculous hair." She and Harry both laughed, and Hermione tried to mimic their response, but she couldn't stop the wheels from turning in her head.

_What if he did dye his hair? Maybe it's time to incorporate some sort of disguise, even in Muggle London. _

Of course, deliberately camouflaging Malfoy's identity counted as death-faking.

"Let's talk about something else," she said. "We've only got one evening a week together,

_and I only get one evening without him,_

and I'd rather not spend it talking about Malfoy."

Harry nodded his head. "You're right, I shouldn't have brought it up. It's just so strange, you know? He was supposed to get married in three months, and he disappeared on his birthday."

Her head jerked up at that. "He did? What day was that?"

"The fifth – a week ago, yesterday."

"Hm," she said. Her voice was a bit higher-pitched than usual, but no one seemed to notice.

"Not that he's much better," Ginny began conspiratorially, "but I'd run, too, if I were engaged to such an insufferable idiot. She was a year behind me in school, and she never talks about anything but herself. I think she honestly believes she's a veela."

Hermione couldn't help but snort along with Harry at that, but probably for a different reason.

_If she were a veela, then why would her fiancé run away and spend his free time trying to get into my bed?_

"That's doubtful," Harry said. "If she and her sister were veela, Ron would've had an even harder time in Potions."

It wasn't until he gave Hermione an apologetic look that she even realised what he'd said, and she threw up a hand to wave it off. Ginny looked like she had something to add, presumably relating to Ron, but Hermione laid down the only trump card she had for this sort of situation.

"So, how's James?" It was like holding up a shiny object in front of a toddler about to fuss. Ginny's eyes lit up with delight, and she commenced with the details until they'd finished their food.

Hermione used the time to scrape up every last speck of sauce from her plate, harder and harder, until her fork was screeching audibly and rhythmically in time with her breathing. She found the sound oddly soothing, and she wondered dimly why Ginny was suddenly having trouble finding her words. Her nails dug into her palm as she gripped the metal.

"Hermione?" This time she did drop her fork, turning to Harry as she snapped out of her trance.

"Yes?"

_It's not your job to wake me up,_

"Are you all right?" he asked gently. "You seem a bit… tense, this evening."

_I'll wake up on my own when I'm good and ready._

She picked up her fork and looked down at her plate in confusion. It had gotten all scratched up, and she would have to throw it away, which meant that her dinnerware set would be incomplete. Her jaw dropped in absolute horror, and for a second she thought she was going to cry. An incomplete dinnerware set was unacceptable.

"Hermione?"

She looked at him again, reluctantly. "_What?_"

"I asked if you were all right," he said. She could see his compassion and concern, but it was too late for any of that. It wasn't his fault,

_just unfortunate circumstances,_

and she didn't blame him,

_though it could have been prevented,_

but nevertheless it was too late.

"I think I'm a bit stressed out," she admitted.

"You work too much," Ginny said. "Don't you think you should take some time off?"

"Certainly not." Her tone was colder than she'd intended, and it sounded harsh even to her own ears. Harry and Ginny shared a meaningful look, which did nothing to improve Hermione's mood. They were always talking about her with their eyes, right in front of her like she was a child.

"If you're sure," Harry said.

"If I wasn't at work, I'd be at home," she said, "and I can't be at home."

She could tell they were both confused by this line of reasoning, but they didn't question it.

"Well, we should be getting home to James. Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Ginny asked, one more time for the road. Hermione gripped the edge of the table. "It's just that we don't want you getting sick again."

They always had to bring that up. A person could be hospitalized for exhaustion just one time, and everyone would treat her like a porcelain doll forever. She used to have this recurring dream where she'd wake up to find her entire flat jammed full of packing peanuts, and Harry's voice would waft toward her through the Styrofoam to tell her it was for her own good. "That was over a year ago. I cut my hours after that, and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Well," Harry began, but then he stopped short.

"No, Harry, what were you going to say?" Her voice was dangerous.

_I dare you, Harry Potter._

"It's just that… your assistant was so concerned that she came to me to make sure you were all right. I know you cut your hours, but you've picked them up since, and I think you might actually be working more now than you were back then."

_Oh, yes, I _dare_ you to make me stay here._

"Did she, now? How very interesting." Apparently, all of her mentoring had done nothing to teach Penny how to keep her nose out of other people's business.

"Now, don't get cross with her about this, Hermione – she really looks up to you. She's just worried, and I have to say I can see why."

Hermione took a calming breath. They needed to see her resilience, since it was clear that they had forgotten. "I appreciate how much you care about me, but no one needs to be concerned about my health. I have everything under control."

Ginny gave her a wary look. "Please let us know if you start to get overwhelmed," she said. "Don't forget, you could always visit my mum and spend a few days eating homemade soup."

_That's a brilliant idea. I'll leave Malfoy alone at my flat while I spend a few days getting nagged._

"Thanks, Ginny," she said. She was absolutely still in control. "I think I'll turn in early tonight."

They cleared out of her kitchen, and Hermione saw them to the Floo, where they both hugged her tightly before departing.

She went to her kitchen, picked up her ruined plate, and threw it at the wall. It chipped when it hit the white paint, but it didn't shatter until it hit the floor and chunks of glass went every direction.

_This is how good I am,_

It made a very satisfying noise, and she let out the breath she'd been holding.

_and I've never been better._

She'd pass out if she didn't start remembering how to breathe, but her body and mind didn't quite feel connected anymore. Not all the signals were going through, and not all her nerves could feel pain. Nothing did its job anymore, she'd noticed; not objects or people or anything else. With the way things were working, she wouldn't have been surprised if the sun and wind went and took a day off.

She smiled. She returned to her room and opened the closet door. Malfoy lifted his head and blinked as the light hit his face.

"I thought of a plan to get some money," he said. She could tell he was excited about it, whatever he was plotting.

"Is it legal?"

"Kind of," he said, as though considering this aspect for the first time. "I guess it depends how you think about it."

"I bet I'll think it's not."

"I bet you will, too, but you're going to do it anyway."

"Don't tell me what I'm going to do," she warned.

_and don't tell me what's mine._

"You have been less predictable lately," he said thoughtfully, "but now I can predict that you're going to do the opposite of what you would have done six years ago."

"You need to stop acting like you've ever known anything about me."

"Nobody knows you as well as I do."

She snorted and shook her head in disbelief. "Is that so?"

"You don't really know someone until you've seen them at their worst, and nobody brings out the worst in you like I do."

"The second half of that is true."

"It will be a beautiful day when you stop lying to me."

She didn't want to talk to him anymore, but there was something she hadn't stopped wondering about since dinner. "Happy birthday, by the way," she said sarcastically.

He grinned, wide and shining. "You're the first to say it."

"I guess that's appropriate, since I'm the reason you got to be twenty-three for longer than a day."

"Nobody else was going to give me any good presents, so I had to go out and get one for myself," he said, as though it explained his behavior in any way.

"What do you mean?"

"Freedom, Granger! Try and keep up," he chastised impatiently.

"Of course, and now you've got it. Locked in closets, not allowed outside, sleeping on floors and couches, reduced to begging anytime you want to touch something." She put her hands on her hips and sneered. "You're good at this."

"When did you get so sassy?"

She was finished now. This conversation was over. "I saved you some food," she said, starting back for the kitchen. She heard him laugh as he followed her, and the sound corroded her ears.

"Don't you want to hear my plan?"

"Not particularly."

"Yes, you do. I'm going to sneak back into the manor and lift a few things for us to sell."

She turned around so quickly that they almost collided.

"It's a good idea, right?"

"No," she said. "You were right – I do think it's illegal. Only I don't just think so, it's my official pronouncement as a Magical Law Enforcement Officer."

"Like I said, it's only kind of illegal. I mean, that stuff's part mine. I was thinking I'd transfigure replicas of some minor art pieces, and if I choose carefully, I guarantee you it'll be another century before anyone so much as looks at them up close. Even if somebody broke one of those vases, my mother would just be disappointed for a few seconds until a house-elf swept it up."

"There's no such thing as 'kind of illegal,'" she pointed out.

_Like how there's no accidental kidnapping or death-faking by omission._

"There's a Muggle story I read one time, I think it's actually rather famous – the legend of Robin Hood. Would you describe Robin Hood's activities as 'illegal'?"

_Kind of._

"Seriously?" she asked with a grimace. "Are you really comparing yourself to _Robin Hood_?"

"No, I'm just drawing a parallel, but you're avoiding the question."

"It has nothing whatsoever to do with this situation."

"Sure it does. Is my family rich or poor?"

"Rich," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

"And what about you and me?"

"We're fine. We're in the middle."

"Compared to my family, we're pretty bloody poor. In your opinion, do my parents deserve those vases?"

_It's all a matter of perspective._

"Definitely not," she sniffed.

"Then let's take them."

She sighed and looked down at her folded arms. She couldn't argue with his logic on that last one, despite the bizarre and completely inapplicable comparison. "How would you even get in there?"

"The front door, I would imagine. They may have put up a new ward to detect if I come home, but I know how to check for that and disarm it before I enter the property. When my father was in prison, I learned that even as a fifth year I was better at protective magic than he ever was."

"What if someone sees you?"

"They won't."

Hermione wasn't convinced; however, if she were, hypothetically, to actually consider this as a possibility, then she would theoretically know a way to make sure Malfoy wasn't seen. Borrowing from friends was in no way illegal. Malfoy was wearing a satisfied smile, and she realised she'd paused so long in thought that she couldn't plausibly deny it. "I'll think about it."

"If you have to act like you need to do that, go right ahead. I know you've already made your decision."

She turned her back on him and walked until she reached the kitchen, and she'd completely forgotten about the broken plate until she almost stepped in it.

"I see Potter's been getting on your nerves. Did you throw it at him?"

"It was an accident."

"That's strange, then. Is your kitchen having gravity issues?"

"What?"

"It's just that generally, things accidentally break on the floor, but your plate hit the wall so hard it left a mark. I was wondering if perhaps your gravity's malfunctioning."

Her hands clenched into fists. He raised his eyebrows and then glanced at the table.

"Why save the rest? If you broke one, you might as well break them all."

"They're still perfectly good plates," she muttered unconvincingly.

"No, they aren't. They're incomplete."

"I only ever have two people over anyway, and it was a set of four."

"But you'll always know, Granger. You'll never be able to set them out again without thinking about that fourth plate."

"They're just bloody plates! What is _wrong_ with you?" she yelled, shaking her fists at him wildly. Her nails dug into her palms.

"You ask me that a lot, and this time I can tell you. Right now, I'm upset because your dinnerware is lacking. It's driving me insane just looking at those two miserable chunks of ceramic," he said breathlessly, and she really had no idea whether he was joking or not. Judging by the strange intensity in his eyes, she decided he wasn't.

"They're my plates, and I'll keep a set of three if I want a set of three plates!" Her breaths came fast and heavy now, too, and some small part of her was trying to figure out why she was so angry about dinnerware.

"Oh, sure! Like you could be happy with that! Your whole life is a set of three plates, and you never even knew it until I came in and needed the fourth one."

"Is that supposed to be a metaphor?" she yelled. Her lungs were burning, and her throat was tight.

"You know exactly what I mean," he growled, and she noticed that he'd moved closer to her, while she was slowly backing up against the table. "Face the facts, Granger. You're going to have to get some whole new plates." He was standing right in front of her, and a sharp corner was pressing into her back. She pushed him back savagely, but he didn't give up. "And I think I should pick them out, since you clearly have no taste."

"I only have bad taste in flatmates," she retorted bitterly.

"You know that's not true. I taste good."

That was it. She had to hand it to him: he really did know exactly where the 'off' switch was for the logic centre in her brain. She reached behind her and grabbed one of her ugly, incomplete plates and threw it at his head. He dodged it with a strangled cry, and so she threw the other one but missed. He kept walking toward her until he was centimetres away, and the table was still digging into her skin, and he smiled.

"I knew I could get you to do that." She slapped him across face, and he reeled back and looked at her dangerously. "That, too."

She almost wanted to respond, but her throat had closed up completely, and all she could do was reach behind her and hang onto the table.

"And you want to know something else?" he asked. She lifted her chin and stared him down. "You forgot to do something last night." She would have to get her breathing under control soon, or she'd hyperventilate. "You never said I couldn't touch you again. You've got about five more seconds to say it right now."

He came at her in a straight line, stepping carefully over the shards, but she didn't say it. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her roughly onto the table, but still she didn't say it. She didn't bother wondering why, even though the noise she made when he sunk his teeth into her shoulder was proof that her vocal chords were working just fine. She sank her nails into his skin and wrapped her legs around him, and he groaned into her neck. He put his mouth over hers again, and she thought it may have been closer to a kiss this time, but it didn't really matter.

She even managed to stop thinking for a time, and she couldn't tell how long it was, but Malfoy was growing more eager much faster than she was. There existed here a power that Hermione had never used, but she could feel that she had it.

She turned her head to suck his neck at the base of his ear, and she nibbled his earlobe before whispering in a sultry voice. "Malfoy?"

"Hm?" he managed, pushing her skirt up over her thighs.

"You can't touch me anymore."

She had never heard a man scream like that before. He launched himself off her and howled and doubled over in pain, and his whole body was shaking. When he managed to look back up at her, gasping desperately for air, his eyes were black and hard.

"You fucking bitch," he hissed. She swung her feet back and forth and smoothed her skirt back down. "Don't act like you don't want this. You're denying yourself just as much as you're denying me."

"Almost," she whispered. "I'm denying you a little bit more."

He struggled to collect himself. "When you realise that you can't wait any longer, you're going to have to remove that restriction for good," he said at last, through intermittent ragged breaths. "There's no way I'm getting near you if you're going to do that again."

"We'll see how long I can wait," she said boldly.

"I guess we will." His voice was calmer, but his eyes were much too sharp. "Have you got anything to drink?"

"No."

"Liar."

"I told you I've quit drinking," she reminded him. He was moving closer again, but not as close as he was before.

"I haven't."

"You have if I say you have."

"You'll take both of those back after another week at work. What case are you working on now? I bet it's really exciting," he taunted.

"That's none of your concern."

"You came home early on Thursday and Friday. Why was that?"

"It's my prerogative to come home an hour early if I so choose."

"Then it wouldn't have anything to do with wanting to come home to me."

"You're asleep when I get home."

"If you want to see me that badly, I could alter my sleep schedule. In fact, if you'll let me sleep in your bed, I'll even do it at night."

"No."

"Can I stay on your bedroom floor?"

She was beginning to feel drained as the last of the adrenaline seeped out of her blood. "I guess," she muttered. It was only ten o'clock, but she had to get up early anyway. "But I'm going to go to bed right now. Get out of my way."

He stepped back slowly, and she pushed herself off the table. She sucked in a surprised breath as she remembered the sea of broken glass.

_Did I really do that?_

She took her wand and magically swept all the shards into the bin. She cleaned the mark off the wall, went to her bedroom, and shut the door.

"Open it when you're done changing," he said. He was waiting right outside.

She put on pyjamas and turned out the lights before letting him in. As she dragged the blankets over her head, she heard him lie down on the floor and bid her goodnight.

* * *

She was there again, and this time she was angry. She didn't want to look at the white doors or the silver doorknobs or the shining numbered plates, and there was no way out until she picked one. She grabbed the closest handle and jerked it open.

Ron was face-down on the floor as she'd left him, except that the scarf was wrapped around his whole head. He moaned unintelligibly into the fabric, and she stepped forward and kicked him in the stomach again and again because there was no one else she could think of to be angry with. He cried out in pain and rolled over, and she realised it wasn't Ron at all. She reached down in slow motion and pulled the scarf aside, and it was Harry.

Then she was screaming and clawing at her hair.

"What's wrong?"

She started sobbing in between her cries, and her body was shaking and straining against the mass of black on top of her, but she could see nothing. Her eyes were blank screens waiting for a projector.

"It was Harry," she whimpered. She was trapped and forgotten here in the void, and it wasn't comfortable anymore. "I didn't want to hurt Harry."

"Who did you want to hurt?"

"I don't know," she said. Her voice sounded like a little girl's. "Whoever told me I had to act like this."

"Act like what?"

"I don't know," she gasped. She could feel the tears sliding down her cheeks and her hands brushing them away, but there was nothing else. This was the whole universe.

"How do you want to act?"

"I don't know."

"Can I get in your bed?"

"Yes," she said, even though the question didn't mean much to her. She felt the binds around her tighten as something pushed against her from the outside.

"Can I touch you?"

"Yes," she said, because then maybe they'd help her out of here. They could help her create a more suitable reality, from scratch now at the beginning of the world.

"Forever?"

This was the Big Bang. She could feel it.

"Yes," she said. The ties loosened, and a warm body pressed itself against her back.

* * *

Hermione woke up clutching the edge of her bed, with no blankets on her at all. The only reason she hadn't tumbled out onto the floor was because of a viselike restraint around her waist. Needless to say, she was surprised by this turn of events.

She turned her head slowly to find that Malfoy was in her bed, touching her. It wouldn't have made any more sense (if making sense were something that anything still did) if it had been someone else in her bed, but this was also unexpected in its own way.

"How did you get here?" she rasped. He opened his eyes.

"You said I could," he informed her before closing them again.

"When?"

"You had a nightmare, and you woke up and told me I could get in bed with you."

"I don't remember that."

"I think you were still mostly asleep."

"So, you took advantage of the situation and coerced me when you knew I couldn't say no."

"I didn't know you wouldn't remember it."

She pushed his arm away and sat up. It was too bright in her room, and she stared at the clock in horror: it was already half-past eight. "Did you turn off my alarm?"

"No, you did."

She put her hands over her face. "I don't even remember hearing it."

"It was still dark outside," he said into her pillow. "I still can't believe you get up that early every day."

She felt just as hungover as she had the day before, and she thought wildly that she might as well have gotten drunk last night. By the time she arrived at the Ministry, with no breakfast and Malfoy still in her bed, it was after nine. She was two hours late. Penny managed to catch up with her even though she was practically running to her office, and she hurried along to nip at Hermione's heels the whole way.

"Miss Granger, you look ill."

"I am," she said decisively, but maybe not how Penny meant it.

"I'm sure you could go home –"

"I wouldn't be any less ill at home."

Hermione stopped in front of her door and unlocked it, curling her lip at the disgustingly neat stack of papers on her desk. She wanted to throw them against the wall like plates, but they wouldn't shatter in such a satisfying way. She turned to face her assistant, and she must have looked like death, because Penny was really looking frightened.

"Bring me black coffee," she instructed, and the young girl fled immediately.

She really did mean to resolve the Leaky Cauldron case that day. She managed to read through a good portion of the documents, but her mind was wandering.

_It's nice not waking up alone._

Penny kept coming in to check on her, and Hermione kept sending her away to refill her coffee.

_I like the way his arms feel._

She even spared some time to think about Malfoy's idea. It was true that his parents didn't deserve their expensive art, especially if they didn't even appreciate it. The longer she thought about it, the more sense it made. The only issue was the execution, and she wondered if she could actually manage to get her hands on Harry's invisibility cloak. She examined the idea from all angles, but she couldn't come up with a way to get it for long enough without detection and was forced to scrap the whole thing. On the other hand, what if Hermione were to appear at Malfoy Manor on official Ministry business? And what if she could then pluck some hair from a house-elf? She hadn't in second year, but now she knew how to modify a Polyjuice potion for interspecies use. If Malfoy were a house-elf, he could appear during daylight and come in as though he'd been tending the grounds. Her thoughts were interrupted when Penny set a fresh mug of coffee on her desk, but she didn't mind this time.

"Penny, do you know who's on the Malfoy disappearance?" she asked.

Penny visibly jumped at being spoken to, but she managed to recover. "Erm, I think the Aurors are still working on that one."

"I see. Do you know how long it will be before it moves up? Assuming they don't find him, which they probably will, of course."

"Well, I'm not supposed to know," she began hesitantly.

"It's all right. Tell me anyway." She could tell her assistant was especially desperate to please her after how cold she'd been lately.

"I heard Harry Potter talking in the hall the other day, and he said they'd take it out of his hands if he didn't have new information by Friday."

"That's very useful to me. Thank you so much," she said, and Penny looked like she might just weep with joy.

Once her assistant was gone, Hermione wrote a concise note to the head of her Department: _I want the Malfoy assignment._

With that in mind, she forced herself to plow through the rest of her documents, and by the end of the day she'd finally submitted her decision: the Cauldron had ninety days to refinish their floors to meet standards, at which time a new test would be performed. They would cover the old man's hospital bills, but no further damages were to be awarded.

She was collecting her things to leave, and not a moment early, when a response arrived from her boss:_I wouldn't have given it to anyone else, Miss Granger._


	8. Trespassing

**Chapter 8: Trespassing**

Hermione was as surprised as anyone to learn that, as of Friday morning, no one had uncovered so much as a trace of Malfoy. Really, she nearly fainted from shock when the Head of Magical Law Enforcement approached her to take on the case.

"Well, I'm sure I can track him down," she said, taking the folder of information.

"If anyone can do this, you can," he said. He had to say things like that because he was a boss and she was an overworked, underpaid employee; he had to worry about things like _morale_ and a _productive work environment_ because if Hermione felt discouraged or underappreciated enough to actually quit, it would be his headache while he tried to replace her. She knew his words meant nothing. He left her office, but Harry showed up soon after.

"Hey, Hermione, I heard they gave you the Malfoy assignment," he said, lingering in the doorway. He was watching her with an uncharacteristic degree of uncertainty.

"I asked for it," she said.

"Are you sure you can handle this right now?"

She opened the Malfoy case file and began to rifle through it, as though she were quite busy. "Harry, please stop worrying about me. I was getting bored with all those little nothing cases I've been deciding lately. This is more interesting."

He studied her face for a moment. "You know, you do look better than the last time I saw you. Maybe this is exactly what you need," he said, brightening.

_Or maybe it's because I've been sleeping better this past week, for various reasons._

"It really pained me to see the kind of work they'd been giving you. I don't know how you could stand it."

"Exactly," she said. "I've earned an assignment like this, and I'm more than ready for it." She flashed him a determined smile, and he returned the sentiment before leaving her to her work.

The nice thing about this assignment, of course, was that she already knew the answer. The downside was that she couldn't tell anybody. She looked over the files anyway, just to make sure no one had placed him in Muggle London, and it seemed that Astoria Greengrass hadn't ever gotten a straight answer about where he went to get into fights. She didn't know which pubs he frequented, and neither did his parents. Since no one knew he'd left the magical world at all, there was no trail. It could end however she wanted it to. Hermione hated to even think about this, but she was considering some serious, completely intentional death-faking.

_What else am I going to do, give him back? To _them_?_

If she could fabricate proof that Malfoy was dead, it would satisfy everyone's needs. She would look good for solving the case, Malfoy wouldn't have to go back, and his family could begin the grieving process. They'd already lost him when they made him lose his mind, and for Hermione to take him away now would not be stealing. He was just a kitten in a free-to-a-good-home box by the side of the road, blinking new eyes at an unfamiliar world, waiting to be picked up by the first available hand. Her home was good, and her hands were empty.

_Please, can I keep him?_

She wrote her boss a memo to tell him she was going to be doing some field work, but she had to stop at her flat first. The couch was empty when she stepped into the living room because Malfoy was still in her bed.

If possible, he was even worse as a bedmate than a flatmate. He hogged all the blankets and took up far too much space, and she kept waking up to find him running his hands over her body. Half-asleep, she'd turn and seek him out and kiss him, and he wasn't like the other men she'd been with. In the dark, he wasn't needy. She didn't feel like some kind of strange maternal figure, pacifying a weak child. But then he'd push against her too hard, and she'd wake up and turn away, and he'd press against her back with a dissatisfied groan. Curiously enough, she hadn't had any more nightmares since he'd been sharing her bed. Anyway, it was unpleasant.

It only took one try to wake him up, which was a new record. It still couldn't be counted as progress, though, because the first thing he did was pat the mattress beside him with what he seemed to believe was an enticing, come-hither look.

"You're home early, Granger. Couldn't keep away from me another minute?"

She was getting better at ignoring his questions, but he didn't seem likely to quit asking them anytime soon. "I'm going to Malfoy Manor today," she said.

"Tell mum I said 'hello.'" He paused and frowned, but only briefly. "On second thought, don't."

His expression cleared to nothing again, and his eyes unfocused. "I wasn't going to," she said. "Which reminds me, I have an idea to get you in undetected."

"I don't need it."

"Humour me."

"Fine." He fixed his gaze on her, present again in his own body. "I suppose it's nice to see you trying your hand at plotting. What have you come up with?"

"When I go in today, I'll get some hair from a house-elf, and then tonight I'll start making a modified Polyjuice Potion. Once it's brewed, you'll sneak into the manor as a house-elf and take what you need."

He stretched languidly against her pillows as he thought it over. "That's not half-bad, but I won't be taking what I need. I'll be taking what we want."

She clenched her jaw and broke eye contact. "Can't I say anything without you picking apart semantics?"

"The way people phrase their statements is unfailingly revealing. It's always offended me when people say that an argument is 'just semantics' – the words you choose and the order you put them in are almost always more meaningful than the words themselves."

"Right, because you don't believe in dictionaries."

"I certainly do not. I've never seen a more useless book in my life, and I've seen a lot of useless books."

She struggled to remember what the two of them were actually talking about, as usual. She kept wondering if she should start every conversation with Malfoy by writing down the most important topic on a slip of paper, but then she'd only end up crumpling it up and throwing it at his head.

"Anyway," she said, "you agree to comply with my plans?"

He gave an approving noise that sounded disgustingly like a purr. "Yes, I can't wait for our evil empire to begin."

My_ evil empire, you presumptuous prick._

She shook her head. No. "We are building no such empire."

"You're right," he said. "If we built it, we'd have to maintain it, and then we'd be trapped again by our obligations as iron-fisted dictators."

_We'll be trapped no matter what we do_

"There can only be one dictator," she said, and he made that noise again.

_in our fleshy cage, and doesn't that just, doesn't it just, doesn't it…_

"Beautiful," was all he said, and she couldn't begin to guess what he meant.

"I'll update you when I get home," she said.

He made to roll back over, but he stopped short and narrowed his eyes. "I find it most interesting that you're willing to break so many laws now, when all you had to do was break one in the beginning."

"What do you mean?"

"When I wouldn't tell you where I was going, you could have kicked me out of your flat anyway. You could have Obliviated me."

She felt oddly embarrassed, because it hadn't even occurred to her that breaking detainment law was a possibility. Her job was to uphold the law, and the only way the world could possibly hold this many people at once was if they all obeyed a rational set of rules. The problem was that every day, she was forgetting more and more. She had awoken this morning unable to remember why it all used to seem so important.

_Memory is the greatest lie of all._

"If you break one, you might as well break them all," she said. She could hear him laughing loudly as she walked back to her living room, and she smiled, too. She really was one plate short of a dinnerware set these days, but at least she was having a good time.

She locked her flat and Apparated just outside the grounds on Malfoy Manor with a sterilised vial tucked up her sleeve. A few weeks ago, she would have been anxious at the prospect of seeing Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, but they didn't seem overly threatening now that their son was her flatmate.

The only explanation she had for why Malfoy no longer seemed to care about her blood was his assessment about the difference – or lack thereof – between Muggles, wizards, and animals. He'd come up with that on his own, but somehow she still felt victorious. There may have been superiority, too, since she'd known all along what had taken him years to learn the hard way.

The path from the Apparition point to the front steps was long and winding, and Hermione couldn't help but strut. She nearly swaggered. The Malfoys weren't legally allowed to put up any wards that impeded access by Ministry officials, but she used her wand to check anyway, and they appeared to be in compliance. Narcissa was allowed to leave the manor again as of two years ago, but Lucius would still be under house arrest until the new year; both of them had permanent limitations on their wands that blocked every spell which could conceivably be used to harm another person. Draco's wand was limited as well but not as heavily, not that it mattered anymore what his wand could do.

A house-elf answered the door. The previous year, she had presented a well-reasoned argument to the Wizengamot about why the Malfoys should no longer be allowed to keep house-elves, but it had been rejected.

"Good afternoon, miss," the elf said with a courteous bow. "May Kippy ask the reason for visiting?"

"Of course," she said. She patted the elf and palmed a stray hair. "My name is Hermione Granger, and I've come to ask a few questions about Draco Malfoy's disappearance on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Please come inside, Miss Hermione Granger. Kippy will fetch his Master and Mistress."

She stepped into the foyer, and Kippy closed the iron door. When he was out of sight, she slipped his hair into the vial and dropped it into the pocket of her robes. She had come up with a list of questions to ask today, but it wasn't as though the answers mattered; she wasn't exactly in a position to learn anything new about Malfoy's current location. She smoothed her clothing and stood up straight for her first interaction with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy in almost five years, and she charmed her wand to take a record of the conversation.

Kippy returned shortly, followed at a distance by Draco's parents. It was strange to imagine his childhood with the two of them now; he seemed out of place in any context except drunk and bleeding on her couch.

Lucius was physically supporting his wife as she clung to his right arm and dragged her feet along the tile. Hermione could hear the noise from the doorway, and she noticed that designer boots scratching and scuffing against glossy marble sounded a lot like despair. It was obvious that her presence offended them, which made it all the sweeter. Lucius wasn't even allowed to leave his home, but Hermione could enter their property at any time, for any reason. They scraped to a stop at least three metres away, probably to keep their distance in case her blood was catching.

"_You_," Lucius said. He spoke the word in such a way that it seemed to last for hours and hold a hundred nightmares. It reminded her of silence after broken glass, and she had to pause and catch her breath.

"You will address me with respect, Mr. Malfoy." By his side, his wife was staring vacantly in the general direction of Hermione's feet. "I'm here to help you, after all. I've taken over the investigation into your son's disappearance."

"Then the Ministry is even more incompetent than I had originally estimated," he said. It was almost impressive in a fucked-up sort of way, the talent that Lucius Malfoy had for sounding frightening while still maintaining his control.

_I'm almost jealous._

"You are not cooperating, then?" she asked. There was some hatred in her own words, too, but she hid most of it out of habit. She was used to polishing her demeanor for a professional setting, and she was also used to being underestimated by men with too much power. "Mr. Malfoy, failure to cooperate with a Ministry official will not look good on your record. I would recommend very strongly that you apologise, lest I report it."

_But that's the best part – finally, finally, I have something they don't._

She knew she'd made him truly angry now, but he didn't show it on his face except in the tightening of his jaw. "I doubt anyone would listen to the reports of a _witch_ such as yourself," he said. He emphasised the word "witch" in a way that made it clear he didn't consider Hermione to be any such thing.

"Am I to infer that you are alluding to my status as a Muggle-born witch?" she challenged. "You are on thin ice already, Mr. Malfoy, and this conversation is being recorded. The Ministry has concluded that your past actions stemmed in large part from your history of blood prejudice. If you were to display a continued allegiance to such beliefs, it would be a matter of much interest to your parole board in December."

His gaze burned into her as he struggled to maintain his calm façade. He stared at her for another moment without responding, and so she continued.

"Once again, I must suggest that you apologise."

_Oh, this is fun._

"Mr. Malfoy?" she repeated. She saw Narcissa tug his arm beseechingly and cast him a worried glance, and he closed his eyes and drew a laboured breath.

"I hold no more prejudice of the sort," he forced out through clenched teeth at last, without opening his eyes. "And I implore you to accept my _sincerest_ apology." The muscles in his neck strained as he spoke, and it seemed that saying those words was actually causing him a measure of physical pain. He opened his eyes, and she could no longer suppress her smile.

For a second after he saw her reaction, Hermione wondered how his son had ever come to believe that humans weren't animals. Lucius Malfoy was pure beast just then, with his eyes round and shining and teeth bared. There was a time in her life when such inhuman rage would have frightened her, but now her smile only widened.

"I do. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," she said. "Now, I'd like to ask a few questions about your son."

Narcissa looked up for the first time, but she didn't quite make eye contact. It was like she was trying to remind herself what a face looked like, and her gaze raked uncomfortably over Hermione's features with unmistakable curiosity. Her eyes were a touch too bright, just like Draco's, and Hermione wondered if their tendency toward madness was a genetic byproduct of inbreeding.

_How would you feel about him sharing a bed with a Mudblood?_

"When were you last in contact with Draco Malfoy?"

"June fifth," Lucius said.

_How does it make you feel that he's been begging to touch me constantly since that day?_

"And what was the nature of your correspondence?"

"Happy birthday," Narcissa whispered desperately. Her husband tightened his hold on her arm.

"We sent him a message by owl post in observance of his birthday," he explained. "We did not receive a response."

_Did you send him a gift? It was a bit late, but I gave him a taste of my Muggle blood._

"When were you last contacted by your son?"

"Early in May. He asked for money, and I obliged."

_Were you aware that he was going to convert it to pounds and spend it getting smashed in Muggle pubs?_

"Who else have you contacted, with regards to his whereabouts? Are there any close friends or family members with whom he could be staying?"

"He has not been in contact with Gregory Goyle, Pansy Parkinson, or Blaise Zabini. Gregory has made an effort to speak with all of Draco's other close acquaintances, and no one has pertinent information."

"I see. Am I correct in assuming, then, that you are unaware of your son's preferred social destinations?"

Lucius gave an almost imperceptible nod, so tense was his neck.

"Thank you for your time. I'll be in _touch_," she said, but obviously they didn't get the joke.

The Malfoys turned away without another word, and Kippy opened the door to see her out. She strolled down the path and Apparated to her flat, where she was surprised to find Malfoy awake on the couch.

"How is my mother?" he asked. She couldn't tell from his face or his conversational tone if he actually cared about the answer, but he probably wouldn't have bothered asking if he didn't.

"Unstable," she said.

"She is, isn't she?" He smiled fondly at this, as though his mother's emotional instability were a cherished childhood memory. Comparatively speaking, perhaps it was.

"You lied to me again."

"About what?"

"You said I was the first to wish you a happy birthday, but your parents said they owled you about it."

"Is that what they were writing about? I didn't open it."

"Do you want to know how your father is?"

"Not at all."

"Then I won't tell you," she said. "Mission accomplished." She produced the vial from her pocket and held it up for him to see, and his lips stretched a bit wider.

"What did I ever do without you, Granger?" he asked. Then he laughed, but Hermione wasn't sure if it was because he'd been joking. Either way, she didn't answer the question.

_What would I do without him?_

"What are you doing up at this hour?" she asked instead.

_Nothing, now that I think about it. I wouldn't be doing much of anything at all._

"I was waiting for you. Why don't you come back to bed with me? You look tired."

"No, I don't." She knew she didn't. The dark circles had disappeared from below her eyes after nearly a week of restful, dreamless sleep. Her complexion was back to its former radiance and her hair to its lustre.

"That's true. I was lying," he said.

"You told me everything you said was true, and I've caught you in two lies today alone. Isn't that a bit hypocritical?"

"You're not in a very good position to accuse anyone of hypocrisy, Granger."

It was a fair assessment, in light of recent events. She nodded and set about gathering her potion-making supplies from the hallway closet.

"Did you ask that house-elf if you could take its hair?"

"No." She took her materials into the kitchen, and he followed her. She set her cauldron on the table and made sure it was clean.

"That's not very nice, taking hairs without permission."

"He wasn't using it." She scanned through her notes until she located the recipe for interspecies Polyjuice Potion.

"How do you know?"

"Are you using all of your hair?"

She ran a finger down the ingredients list. She had everything she needed on hand except the Fluxweed, but she could pick that up in Diagon Alley. She was suddenly very thankful that she'd made that batch of hangover potion, because it also required Lacewing flies. She still had at least twelve in the jar, so she wouldn't have to spend another twenty-one days waiting for them to stew properly. The potion would still take more than a month to set, but she had time.

"Fair point. I suppose I'm just concerned that you've made hair-pulling into a habit – mine, yours, and everyone else's."

"My habits are not subject to your review."

She felt him move closer until his chest was against her back, and then he ran his fingers slowly through her hair. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation, until she felt his breath on her ear.

"But how would you like it if someone did that to you?" he whispered. He gripped her hair and pulled sharply, and she gasped. He started to caress her again, but she spun around and pressed her wand into his chest.

"You'll regret it if you do that again," she said. He glanced down at her wand and raised his hands in mock surrender.

"I doubt it," he said. "Regret is just an excuse to wallow in self-pity without feeling selfish."

He was leading her down the wrong road, and so she changed the subject. "You seem to have a rather expansive collection of statements all stored up. Isn't there anyone else in the world who has the energy to play word games with you?"

"No, there isn't," he said sincerely. She lowered her wand.

"I didn't think so."

"But even if there were, you would still be the most fun. You try to hide things from me, and that can be rather cute, but you're so fundamentally honest that it seeps out of your pores."

"Has any of it gotten into you yet?"

"I'm not sure, has any of me crawled into you?" He raised his eyebrows to emphasise his point, as though it weren't disgustingly obvious already.

"I'm going to Diagon Alley to get some Fluxweed," she said, moving onto a more palatable subject, "and I'm going to stop in Muggle London and buy you some new clothes. What size?"

"I don't remember," he said. "It's been a long time since I've bothered buying new clothes."

"You don't –" She stopped herself. It wasn't worth it. "Fine."

She flicked her wand, and brightly-coloured streams of light wrapped themselves around various parts of his body. Numbers appeared above each of the streams, and Hermione tore a piece of paper from her recipe notebook and wrote them down.

"I have another errand to run as well," she said, trying to conceal her excitement with little success. "I'm going to pay a visit to your fiancée."

He snorted and shook his head. "Any chance you could get my ring back?"

"Probably not."

"Then give her hell," he said.

"What did she do to you?"

"What did Weasley do to you?"

"I don't want to talk about that." It occurred to her that she hadn't thought about Ron since Harry had mentioned him by accident on Sunday, and she wanted to keep it that way.

"It isn't about what people do, it's about what they are," he said. "Being a certain sort of person for extended periods of time can be just enough to push someone over the edge."

_Yes, we've both been pushed_

Perhaps it was finally time to acknowledge the fact that this was what they had in common. This was why they were getting along better than either of them had any right to.

_and now we are falling and falling._

"You're right," she said. "You just said something true."

"Does this mean you're going to start believing me now?"

"No, that was an isolated incident."

"We'll see."

She sighed and changed out of her work robes into Muggle clothing. She went to Diagon Alley and picked up the Fluxweed without issue. Choosing clothes for Malfoy was a more daunting task, especially considering his comments about her taste, and she wound up asking a male sales attendant for help. He asked if the clothes were for her boyfriend, and she said they were for her brother. It was a gross thought no matter how she approached it, but somehow it felt even more wrong to call Malfoy her boyfriend. Since she was in the department store anyway, she also bought a new set of plates.

When she returned to her flat, he had gone back to bed. She woke him up to try on the clothes.

"Who helped you pick these out, Granger?" he asked, after looking them over. "They're nowhere near as awful as I had anticipated."

"You were wrong about my level of taste."

"I'm not convinced I was, but these will do." They fit, of course. She knew they would because she'd measured him herself.

"What do you say when someone gives you something?"

If she didn't know better, she'd have thought he was genuinely confused. "Something good or bad?" he asked.

"Something good," she said.

"How good?"

"Say 'thank you'!" she snapped. This could go on for ages if she didn't end it now.

"Thank you," he said. It didn't sound like he meant it, but she didn't have it in her to start another conversation about lying. It didn't make a difference what she talked about anyway; Malfoy could turn a conversation about bran muffins into either a bizarre metaphor for her current mental state or less-than-subtle sexual innuendo, depending on his mood. As such, she chose to say nothing at all.

She left all his clothes on the bed, stored her Fluxweed in the closet, and fixed her makeup. She decided that she looked good enough to meet with Astoria Greengrass, but it didn't matter either way; or, at least, it should not have mattered.

_Seeing as I've got the man._

It wouldn't have mattered to the person Hermione Granger used to be.

_I don't think this is one of them, but that girl was wrong about a lot of things._

She Apparated directly outside the Greengrass estate, which it was considerably smaller than Malfoy Manor, yet still much more expansive than any one family could ever need. She wiped the smile off her face before knocking on the door, but it kept trying to come back. A house-elf opened the door and beckoned her inside after taking her name, just as Kippy had done at Malfoy Manor.

A moment later, an undeniably beautiful blonde witch came to meet her. She was dressed in long and modest black dress robes, with a wide-brimmed black hat and netting over her face and mascara smeared across her cheeks. On the whole, "overdoing it" didn't even begin to describe the situation. Hermione turned her laughter into a cough while Astoria eyed her suspiciously.

"I don't believe we've ever met, Miss Greengrass," she said, once she'd collected herself. "My name is Hermione Granger, and I'll be taking control of the investigation into your fiancé's disappearance."

"I know who you are," she said matter-of-factly. She didn't sound hateful like Lucius Malfoy or mad like Narcissa; in fact, there was no feeling in her words at all.

"When did you last see Mr. Malfoy?"

"June fifth," she said. "We had plans for his birthday – I had the whole thing ready, but he said he was going out. We… had a row about it, and he just stormed off into the Floo." She threw up a hand and gestured vaguely into the void. "I looked for him all night, but I couldn't find him." It sounded like she was describing something that had happened many years ago, perhaps to a different person.

_Maybe she doesn't know who she is anymore, either._

"Where did you look?"

_Maybe this is what we all have in common._

"Everywhere I could think of that serves alcohol," she said, with a humourless jolt of laughter.

"Was Mr. Malfoy a heavy drinker?"

She bounced her head back and forth, clearly reluctant to admit this to Hermione. "He drank sometimes. I don't think he had a problem or something, if that's what you mean," she said defensively.

"I see. But you don't know which pubs he frequented?"

Again, she resisted the question. "Not really. It's not any of my business."

"Did you ask?"

"Sometimes. I used to, but then I stopped."

"Why did you stop?"

"I stopped asking a lot of things. He didn't ever tell me anything."

"So, you have no idea where Mr. Malfoy could have gone that night?"

She shook her head slowly. "Do you think he's –"

She cut off mid-sentence and didn't seem likely to finish, but Hermione knew what she meant.

"I don't know anything more than you do at this point," she said, which could almost be sort of true, in an abstract sense. At that exact moment in time, Hermione did not know for certain whether or not Malfoy was alive.

Astoria moved forward until she was so close that her arm brushed against Hermione's hair as she lifted her veil, revealing clear but empty eyes surrounded by melting black kohl and a web of swollen veins. It was obvious that she was searching for something, but she didn't seem to find it. She nodded and looked at the ground, and Hermione recognised her cue to leave.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Greengrass. I'll alert you to any further developments."

"Okay," she said. The house-elf didn't return, so Hermione was left to show herself out, but she didn't mind. She could open doors all by herself.

Malfoy was waiting for her again when she returned.

"How's the girl?" he asked.

_Do you care?_

"She's in mourning," she said.

_I want to know so badly. Is there anything you care about at all?_

He gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Now, I don't mean to underestimate you, but am I correct in assuming that you don't know how to transfigure a corpse?"

"Certainly not. That's illegal," she said, but that particular accusation just didn't carry the weight it used to.

"So many things are," he said ruefully. "But just for your own personal knowledge, I know how."

Well, it wasn't as though she hadn't broken any yet.


	9. Fabricating Physical Evidence

**Chapter 9: Fabricating Physical Evidence**

Hermione wanted to avoid the corpse-making idea for a while longer, so she put her mind to her potion. Malfoy came into the kitchen with her, where she set up her cauldron and all the ingredients on the table. He was silent as she worked, and he seemed to be thinking deeply about something, which made her a bit nervous. It took her just under an hour to mix the potion perfectly.

"It'll take twenty-seven days to set properly," she said, breaking the silence. "I'm going to cover it and put it away."

He stayed at her kitchen table while she stowed it in the closet. She'd need to stir it seven times counterclockwise at the same time every day, so she also connected the cauldron to her wand to create a magical alarm. At ten minutes to eight each day, her wand would vibrate, and she was certain that Harry and Ginny would be gone by that time on Sunday. She walked back into the kitchen and sat opposite Malfoy, and he looked like he was ready to talk. She braced herself.

"I was thinking we could combine our two little plans here, Granger."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we're going to put together a corpse for me, and then I'm going to sneak into the manor as a house elf to collect our merchandise. In fact, if we start tonight, the corpse will be done at around the same time as the potion. I want to combine the two in such a way that I get to attend my own funeral." He looked excited at the prospect.

"Why?" she asked, shaking her head in dismay.

"Everyone wants to do that, don't they? It can't be just me. Haven't you ever lain awake at night and thought about what your eulogy would say?"

_"Hermione Granger worked really hard; hasn't had fun since before the War." It wasn't true anymore, but whoever gave her eulogy wouldn't know about that. _

"Not really. How do you make a corpse?" she asked, just merely out of idle curiosity. She knew how to use simple transfiguration to make an object appear to be a certain body, but all a person had to do was touch it to know it wasn't the real thing. Those types of transfigured corpses did not decay realistically and most importantly did not possess human DNA.

"You have to grow it," he said, as though that were very obvious.

It did jog her memory, though - she had read about the other method in a very old book once, but she couldn't recall any specifics except that it was very dark and difficult magic. She'd been looking for information on horcruxes at the time, and they seemed to fall into the same category of illegal, death-related, appallingly grotesque means of solving one's problems. Hermione couldn't claim that she wasn't fascinated by this sort of ancient dark practice, though, because she always had been; it wasn't as though she wanted to make a career of it, but she was equally intrigued by all kinds of magic.

"I read something about that once," she commented. "How do you do it?"

"As I am sure you know, you could make a pretend corpse that would look like me very easily, but it wouldn't have any part of me in it. The kind of corpse that we need is one that will match my genetic material in response to several tests. How do Muggles identify a mangled corpse again, Granger?" He was looking at her like she was the star pupil in his corpse-building class, and it was rather unsettling.

"Dental records," she said.

"So what's one thing that we might need, do you suppose?"

She blanched and gaped at him. "That's horrifying."

"You didn't look too closely at that book you were reading, then, did you?"

"The instructions were in a dialect I didn't understand. I think the ingredients were in code."

"I suppose they would have been," he agreed. "But you're figuring it out now. What's the first thing we'll need?"

She sucked in her cheeks and looked down at the table. "Teeth."

"Just one. Tooth. And when you die, your corpse shrivels up as it dries out, creating a strange illusion. What appears to happen?"

"Many things," she said. This was getting gross. He held up a hand and wiggled his fingers, and she sighed. "It looks like your nails and hair keep growing."

"Right again. What else will we need, then?"

"Hair and a nail," she said. She looked at him carefully, from his hair to his hands to his teeth, and the bile was starting to rise in her throat.

"And where else is there genetic material on a body?"

"Everywhere."

"Give an example. The first one that comes to mind."

She hoped she'd been wrong about that, but she knew what he meant. She reminded herself that they were still just talking: she hadn't committed to actually doing anything. "Bone marrow."

"That makes four, and there are six in all. Would you care to hazard a guess for the remaining two?"

"No."

"You know them, though. They're the most obvious. Say what you're thinking."

"This is disgusting! How could you even consider doing this?"

"I would do absolutely anything not to go back there," he said, and there was a strange note of sincerity in his voice that caught her off-guard. She hadn't seen him display any sort of emotional vulnerability since the first time he'd talked about his funeral on the night she found him. His eyes didn't close off again this time, and he kept staring at her and watching her expression. "You know exactly how I feel," he remarked.

"Flesh and blood," she said at last, and he nodded.

"You've got it. Are you ready to begin?"

"No. We are not doing this," she protested, looking away again. "It's too much. You're not in your right mind."

"I won't be until I know I'm free. I have to end it somehow, and this is the only way that makes sense anymore. I tried to get kicked out, but Astoria couldn't do that on her own. She wanted to every day, but she's not allowed. I tried letting myself die, but you got to me first. You know it would be worse for everyone if I were just missing forever, never found. It could be months or years before they even try to get along without me, not that it will be very difficult once they do, and you'd have to keep up your farce of an investigation for an absurdly long time. We all need some closure. If it makes you feel better, Astoria hates me every bit as much as I hate her. You talked to her - you ought to know."

"She practically cried in front of me. She couldn't even finish the question when she asked if you were dead."

"Yes, it's hard when your future turns out differently than what you had planned. But she talked about me, didn't she?"

"A bit."

"Did she tell you how much she loved and missed me?"

"No," she admitted.

"What did she say about me?"

"She said you drank a lot, you never told her where you went or what you did, and that your life wasn't any of her business."

"Does that sound more like love or hate to you?"

"She was angry because you walked out on her," Hermione argued. "That doesn't mean she doesn't love you."

"No, it doesn't by itself, this was a business partnership from the start. I was there, and I would know: we do not love each other," he said. His tone left little room for debate, and it wasn't Hermione's place to argue the point anyway. It was his relationship, after all.

"What about your mother?"

"She did love me, but not enough."

"What do you mean?"

"Not enough to get me out. It's too late now, and I'm an adult, so I'm doing it myself. She will cry, and I don't like that. I'm not some kind of unfeeling monster here, Granger. I understand that she's trapped, too. I don't think she ever knew there could be a way out, but I can't stay just for her. I have the rest of my life ahead of me, and I don't owe her a hundred more years of misery. I don't owe anybody anything, except you."

"What do you owe me?" she asked.

"My life," he said, and his honesty in that moment made her extremely uncomfortable. "And because I owe you, and not the other way around, all I can do is ask nicely for more help. Please, Granger."

Her breath caught, and she found she couldn't break eye contact anymore. His tone wasn't pleading in the slightest, just sincere. She wondered if he was trying to manipulate her by telling her this, but she couldn't think of another motive except the things he'd just said, and she knew they were true.

"Look at what you're asking me to do," she pointed out, and her voice sounded much more emotional than she'd intended.

"I'm not asking for _your_ flesh. All I'm asking is that you'll let me do what I have to do."

"Are you sure you have to do this?"

"Absolutely."

She tried to push her emotions aside and consider the situation from a more logical perspective, but she wasn't doing a very good job of it. Of course, this was one of those rare times where the two conclusions seemed to coincide: in the realm of cold, unfeeling reason, making a corpse for Malfoy was the most logical solution. In her heart (and she really hated that phrase, but nothing else quite described it), she knew she had to do this. He needed her help, but he didn't _expect_ it. He was willing to ask, rather than demand, and to admit that he would be indebted to her after this was through. It was more than all the other people who'd needed her had bothered to do.

"How do you start?" she asked, and his relief was tangible.

"The first step is the easy part, although not so much in this little flat," he said, glancing around the kitchen. "You need a place to keep it while it grows. Once you've got that ready, you make a little clay model of a body, with the bone in the chest and the tooth in the head and the nail on the right hand. You use the hair to tie the skin in place over the face. Then, you place it in a jar filled with water and blood.

"Over the course of the first week, the model will absorb the components to create a complete, miniature corpse. The liquid will be gone by this point, and the jar will break on its own as the corpse outgrows it and decays at an accelerated rate. In just under a month, it should be where it needs to be, and the date and time of death are specified as part of the incantation. The good thing is that we're making a two-month-old body," he said, as though that could in any way be a good thing. "If we needed a fresh one, it would have to have eyeballs."

"Oh, god," she whimpered, putting her face in her hands as her stomach turned.

"We're technically supposed to give it eyeballs anyway, but it shouldn't make a difference. They'd be all gone by that stage of decay. That used to be a dead give-away, no pun intended, back in the days when this sort of thing was more common. My great-great-grandfather on the Black side faked his death quite successfully, until he chanced coming back to England for a bit ten years later. The wrong person noticed a one-eyed bloke that bore a slight resemblance to a Black around Knockturn Alley, and they remembered a very steep unpaid debt, and that time he died for real."

She narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out why he was willing to tell her things like that about his family. "Is that how you know how to do this?"

"No, it isn't," he said simply. She almost asked for more details, but she decided she didn't really want or need to know.

"Does it have to be a certain bone?"

"No, it can be anything. I don't think I'd miss one of my toes. We could also strip off the skin and use that nail, so we won't have to dismember me too much."

Hermione realised she should have expected that this was what the spell would take. She'd been hoping faintly that it would only need blood, but dark spells in this family tended to require more significant pieces of the caster's body. "I don't think that one's a 'we,'" she told him. "I think that can be your job."

"All right, Granger," he said, looking inappropriately amused. "I can handle that, but can you take out my tooth and perform the amputation? That's hard to do on yourself."

She bit her lip. Tooth-pulling and amputation. This was terrifying, especially because she knew that certain dark arts didn't allow for the use of numbing spells. "Does the procedure… have any restrictions on pain relief?"

"No. You can knock me out completely if you want to, since the pieces are dead by the time we use them anyway. I know what practices you're thinking of, and those want the blood to still be running in the severed body parts."

"What sort of clay?"

"Mud, really. Dirt and water."

She sighed heavily. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"You know I am, but you aren't. It isn't going to be very difficult, once we get started. You hate me, anyway. Don't you want to cut me up?"

"No," she gasped. "I don't hate you." It was true, she realised. She really didn't hate him anymore. She didn't think she _liked_ him, but she could relate to him. She could understand his desperation.

"That's nice. I don't hate you, either." His lips twitched up just a little bit, but it wasn't one of his strange, wide-eyed smiles.

"All right, I'll do it," she muttered at last. She'd gotten herself into this mess, and she couldn't think of another way out except to follow it through to its logical conclusion. Once this part was over, she would have to decide all over again what to do with Malfoy; there was a worried voice in the back of her head that suggested they'd have to give him a whole new identity, but she had another month before she'd need to think about that.

"Thank you," he said in a clipped, formal tone. She found she liked that better than the emotional sort of gratitude; his way implied that those two words weren't all the acknowledgement she was going to get for her assistance. "Where will we put it while it grows?"

She pressed her lips together, thinking carefully. After the Quidditch World Cup in her fourth year, she'd become extremely fascinated by the way magic could be used to expand a space, and she'd gotten rather good at it. Her bedroom closet was already expanded far beyond where it should have ended, but it made more sense to situate the thing horizontally. She decided it wouldn't be difficult to construct a concealed space beneath the floor of the closet, even though that would place it very near to her bed, which was weird. Under the floorboards was certainly the proper location, though; that was just where bodies went. Everyone knew that, from Edgar Allan Poe to serial killers on the evening news.

"We can make a space under the floor in my bedroom closet."

He pulled a face. "But then I'll have to stand it on it when you have guests. Don't make me stand on our baby corpse. That's creepy, Granger."

"You're the one who wants to do this, and you're also the one who just called it our 'baby corpse,'" she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "This whole situation is so far beyond creepy that I can't believe that's the part you're objecting to."

"Can I hide under your bed from now on?"

"I suppose, if you think that's better." She stood up reluctantly and went to her bedroom, with Malfoy close behind. After clearing off a space in her closet, she magically measured him and then the floor, and there was enough room. She used her wand to open the floorboards and raise them into the air.

"So, Granger, how did I die?"

"I don't know. It's up to you." She vanished a half-metre deep rectangle while the floorboards were still hovering.

"Well, suicide is too dramatic," he said. "Homicide wouldn't work, because then you'd have to act like you were looking for the killer. It has to be an accident." She put the boards back down and made sure they reconnected seamlessly with the rest of the closet.

"Can you tell it's there?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Not at all," he said. "What if I got hit by a car?"

"That would put you in Muggle London, though, and that brings up too many questions," she said, turning around to face him. "It has to be something that would be expected of you. If someone asked Astoria how she thought you were going to die, what would she say?"

"Alcohol poisoning," he remarked, with a grin. "But that's too embarrassing. I can hold my liquor."

"Any freak accident is going to be embarrassing," she pointed out. "Have you got any other potentially deadly habits?"

"Not that I would have been engaging in close to midnight on a Saturday. A potion-making accident doesn't make sense."

"She said she checked every magical establishment she could think of that serves alcohol, though. If you were at any bar in wizarding London, she would have found you."

"This is hard," he complained. "There aren't that many solo accidents that could've killed me that take place within the magical world but not at a bar."

"Oh, I've got one, but it is embarrassing," she said. He nodded for her to go on. "Drunken broom accident." She knew it was more than a little morbid, but she couldn't help but smile at the idea.

"Where did I get the broom?" he countered, but he seemed to share her amusement, which made it seem all the weirder.

"Oh, right. I suppose you could have stolen one, but from whom?"

"That would be complicated. Splinched myself?"

"On the way to where? We'd have to split your corpse, too, and then I'd have to somehow find both pieces."

"What if you just found my head? That would be enough to prove it's me, and we could dump the body in the middle of nowhere for some unlucky hiker to find in a few years." It wasn't funny at all, not even a little bit. They both laughed anyway, in some kind of nervous reaction.

"That works, actually. You could have been Apparating drunk from some seedy area in Knockturn Alley, off the beaten path. Did you ever go there?"

"Sometimes," he said. "If you ask around, some of the shopkeepers and bartenders will say they know me."

"That would be enough of a reason for me to call a team of aurors to search the whole place, which I don't think they've done yet. I'll ask Harry on Sunday, though."

"Perfect. That way, it won't even be you that finds my head."

"I'll space it out," she said. "Next week, I'll go around and visit the acquaintances your father mentioned. At least one of them should mention your connections to Knockturn Alley, and then I'll move there. That feels natural."

"It does?" he asked mockingly.

"No," she admitted, in light of the bigger picture. "Not even close. But it will work."

"What names did he give you?"

"Goyle, Parkinson, and Zabini."

"You should go to Goyle last, because the others will probably be dead ends. I haven't seen Blaise or Pansy in years outside of society functions, but Goyle and I were in the process of a purchase at Borgin and Burke's."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What were you buying?"

"It doesn't matter now. It's not as though I need it anymore."

"Tell me anyway," she said.

"What good would it do you to know?"

"You said you owe me."

"And is this piece of totally irrelevant information really what you want in return?"

"No," she admitted.

"It won't be difficult to lead Goyle into giving you what you need to move forward," he commented, clearly finished with the topic at hand.

"I expect it won't," she said, conceding defeat. She knew she could get it out of him eventually, though. He was right about it probably being irrelevant, but she was curious.

"Now that we've got that settled, do you have a jar?" She'd momentarily forgotten why they were talking about this, and it didn't feel good to be reminded.

"How big would it have to be?"

"About a litre."

"I think so." They walked back into her kitchen, and she found an appropriately-sized glass container. "How much water?"

"Fill it almost all the way, but leave room for the model. We don't need much blood."

She brought the jar over to the sink and followed his instructions, and then she placed the jar on the table. "I'll go outside and get some dirt. Add the blood while I'm gone."

"Why, are you going to be squeamish about it?"

"It makes me squeamish that I don't want to see you slice open your own hand for the purposes of dark magic?" she countered.

"A bit."

She pressed her lips together and elected not to respond. She used her wand to sterilise a sharp knife and handed it to him, along with a clean rag. He took them with a curt nod, and she selected a mixing bowl. He held his hand over the jar as he watched her walk out of the kitchen, and she realised with relief that he was actually waiting for her to leave.

Hermione walked down the stairs and out the front entrance, so the pub crowd wouldn't be around, and she leaned against the wall and took a few calming breaths. She was really in deep now, and it all suddenly felt very real. She hadn't expected Malfoy to acknowledge that she'd saved his life, and he even seemed grateful in his own strange way. The things he was saying kept tugging at something in her chest, and that was the scariest part: he wasn't just another one of her problems anymore. He'd told her things about himself that not many people probably knew, and somehow she'd managed to get emotionally involved with this. She actually wanted to help him.

It felt the same as the way she'd wanted to help Harry in school, no matter what it took. And as she had told Harry more than once, there were things more important than rules and laws. On the other hand, this wasn't Harry, and it had nothing to do with saving the world and a whole lot more to do with saving her own skin. She wasn't even friends with Malfoy, and he'd never once given her a reason to help him with anything, but he'd also never asked. She had encountered only one or two things in her life that just couldn't be rationalised, and she might just have to add this to that list, because she was going to do it either way. She glanced around to make sure no one was looking before crouching down to throw a few handfuls of soil into the bowl.

When she walked back into her kitchen, the liquid in the jar was a pale pink, and Malfoy was pressing the rag into his left palm.

"Hold out your hand," she instructed, and he took away the rag to reveal a shallow gash. She healed it with her wand and cleaned the rag and the knife. She didn't think she'd feel comfortable using that knife to slice vegetables anymore, so she decided she'd throw it away after he used it to take out his bone.

"Are you ready to get the tooth?" he asked. He sounded a bit anxious now, and Hermione found it oddly comforting. She was certain she was still more nervous than he was, but at least she wasn't completely alone.

"Let's just do it before I change my mind," she said, stepping out into the living room. "Lay on the couch, I suppose?"

He reclined stiffly across the cushions, and she pulled an armchair up to his head and turned on the nearest light. She cocked her head to the side for a second, trying to decide if this was the strangest thing she'd ever had to do. At the very last, it made the top five, but cutting off his toe would top it easily.

"Open your mouth," she instructed. It would have been very easy for him to turn that into something obscene, but she was relieved to note that he complied without a word. She cast a numbing spell over one side of his face and selected a back molar. She had never pulled a tooth before, but she had removed other foreign objects from below the skin during the War. She hoped the root wouldn't cause any problems, but she was confident that she could use the same spell that worked for removing chunks of metal and glass imbedded after an explosion. "Are you ready?"

He nodded, and she placed her free hand on his chin to keep his jaw open. She leaned in close and placed the tip of her wand between his front teeth, and then she aimed carefully and cast the spell. The numbing must have been effective, because he didn't react as the tooth slipped free of his gum, followed by the root. It appeared to be a clean extraction, and she levitated the tooth out of his mouth and sighed with relief.

"Hold out your hand," she daid. When he did, she dropped the tooth into it and healed the wound in his mouth before casting a mild pain-reliever. She removed the numbing spell, and he smiled at her.

"Where'd you learn to pull teeth?"

"I didn't."

"You didn't see fit to warn me?" he asked, affronted.

"It worked, didn't it?" she asked defensively.

"Do you know how to perform an amputation?"

"Yes," she said, although that was stretching the truth a bit. She knew a spell that would cut through bone, but that wasn't its primary purpose. He seemed satisfied, though, and she moved to kneel in front of the other end of the couch. "Hold still."

"I think we should get something to put this one in." That was a good point. She _Accio_'d a bowl from the kitchen, which she was certain she'd also throw away, and handed it to him.

She cast the same strong numbing spell on his foot and placed her hand on his ankle to keep it steady. She could hear his shallow breathing, and she looked up and met his eyes. "Don't you think you should look away?"

"No."

She looked back and forced herself to concentrate, and this was definitely, one-hundred-percent for sure the weirdest thing she'd ever done. She took a breath to steady herself, and then she placed her wand against the edge of his smallest toe and cast a clotting spell to block the flow of blood completely. She moved her wand up a bit and siphoned the remaining blood from the area until it was completely white, and she had to close her eyes for a second to keep her stomach from turning.

When she opened them again, she was centered on the task and back in that familiar, clinical mindset that had always served her well when treating battle injuries. She performed a clean incision around his toe and levitated it carefully into the bowl. There was no blood, and she used her wand to clean and cauterise the wound.

After it was finished, she leaned her head back and saw stars. She had forgotten to breathe the entire time she was working, and then she'd sucked the air back in too quickly. She pushed Malfoy's legs off the couch and pulled herself up, sinking her head between her knees. After a moment, she felt his hand on her back as her vision was starting to clear.

"I told you it would be easy," he commented, and this time she could tell it was a joke. She started laughing until she couldn't breathe again, because it was better than sobbing, although there were still tears in her eyes by the time she was through. His hand was still, but he didn't take it off her until she stood up some time later and walked back into the kitchen. He followed her at a distance, favouring his numb foot. She filled a glass with water and handed it to him for the model, and then she went back to lean over the sink. As she poured a glass for herself, she heard the sounds of water and mud moving between his fingers, and she stared down the drain and sipped her water slowly.

The mud noises stopped after a few minutes, and she knew he was cutting out the bone and nail next, and she didn't feel the need to watch any of it. "Let me know when you're finished," she called over her shoulder.

She wasn't sure exactly how long it took, but she had enough time to finish two full glasses of water before she heard a small plop as the finished model sank into the jar. The lid squeaked a bit as he screwed it on, and the noise was deafening.

"I need my wand," he said, and she turned around at last, keeping her eyes carefully away from their little baby corpse. She nodded and fetched it from her bedroom.

"Will it still perform this spell?" she asked, as she handed it to him reluctantly. She wondered if she should have been concerned about giving him his wand, even for a minute, but after further review she decided it was probably the least dangerous thing she'd done that day.

"I'm almost positive it will. For my parents, they specified which spells they _can_ do. For me, they blocked the ones that I can't. This spell isn't remotely related to any of the harmful spells they restricted, and I honestly doubt that most of the Ministry is even aware of its existence."

She really hoped it would work because otherwise she'd have to let him use her wand, and that could have terrible consequences down the line. She looked away again as he performed the incantation, and she wasn't certain what language it was in, but she didn't catch a word. When he was finished, there was a terrible noise like the scream of a drowning man, and she flinched and gripped the table.

"What was that? Did it _die?_"

"I think a part of my physical body died, if that makes sense," he said. "It hurt, but it wasn't a spiritual sort of pain. I died on June seventh, at 11:33 PM."

"I think we should destroy your wand," she said. She hadn't thought about it before she'd said it, but it was the only option at that point. It would pose major problems if anyone ever located that wand and saw the spell it had cast, and it made sense for his new identity to be Muggle.

"Now?" he asked, and she could hear the pain in his voice. She knew how it felt to lose her wand, even briefly, but he wouldn't ever have one again, and she couldn't keep away the rush of sympathy.

"I think we have to," she said. She didn't look at him as she held out her hand, and it felt like forever before he finally pressed it into her palm. She snapped it in half in one smooth motion, and she could tell that was a spiritual sort of pain from the strangled noise he made. She wasn't sure how to destroy a wand completely, and she'd have to look it up later, but for now she could store it back in her drawer. "Will you carry the jar?"

He didn't respond, but she heard him pick it up and follow her back into her room. She dropped the pieces of his wand in her drawer, and then she opened the closet and lifted the boards. Malfoy bent to place the jar in the centre of the rectangle, and she covered it back up and closed and locked the door. He limped away and collapsed onto her bed without another word.

She touched his ankle again and replaced the numbing spell with a strong pain reliever that would last through the night. She stared down at him for a second, his face hidden in his arm, and she couldn't think of anything else to do. She walked around to the other side of the bed and crawled in next to him, and he squeezed her so tightly that it was uncomfortable, but she didn't make him stop.


	10. Breaking & Entering

_"All things considered, being shot is not as bad as I always thought it might be. As long as you can keep the fear from your mind. I guess you could say that about most anything in life."_

_- Dale Cooper, _Twin Peaks

* * *

**Chapter 10: Breaking & Entering**

Everything happy and normal suddenly seemed highly ironic to Hermione. How could the sun invite itself into her flat, when there was that thing in the closet?

Moreover, what did birds and blue skies want with Hermione Granger anymore? She was letting Dark magic happen in her kitchen. She was growing unholy creatures under the floorboards, while demons slept in her bed. She was fairly certain that she had officially fallen from grace, and she wondered if there was any sort of license she was obligated to turn in.

She wanted to shake Malfoy and yell at him until she was convinced that all of this was his fault, but she couldn't stop hearing the sound of his wand snapping, and that had been her idea. Instead, she just stared down at him in mute horror until he opened his eyes.

"Granger, I had the strangest dream."

"What was it?" she asked cautiously.

"You already know. You were there."

She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't really."

"Oh, sure you were. Maybe you don't remember, but I know it was you. You were acting the same way you always act."

"How do I act?"

"Very important."

"I don't know what you mean by that."

"You do, though. You always know exactly what I mean. Why can't you just start admitting it?" he said, as he drew himself into a sitting position next to her. "No matter what you're doing, you always seem to think it's very important. I dreamed my wand broke."

"Malfoy," she began, but she didn't know how to continue. Doing it had been bad enough, and now she had to convince him it had really happened.

"It looks like you had the same dream, Granger. What are the odds?"

"It wasn't," she whispered.

"It wasn't what?"

"A dream."

"Say it all together."

"It wasn't a dream."

"Yes, it was," he said. "It certainly felt like one, didn't it? The rest of it, too."

Her eyes slipped over to the closet door, and he followed her gaze.

"Imagine. What if we'd really done that?" he asked.

_Maybe he's right. It didn't feel real._

She drew back the blankets slowly, and he was wearing a pair of socks she'd bought him. "When did you put those on?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does."

"What?"

"Matter. It does matter."

"No, it doesn't."

"Open your mouth," she ordered.

"Why would you want me to do that?"

"To check your teeth."

"No, I don't think so," he said. "They're my teeth. I don't want you looking at them."

She nodded, and then she turned away to open the drawer of her bedside table. When her fingers were on the handle, she felt Malfoy's arms move around her waist.

"What are you looking for in there?"

"I have to know for sure. You're confusing me again." She fondled the drawer handle lightly. Any moment now, she was going to open it, and Malfoy's wand would either be broken or whole. She couldn't go on living unless she saw it.

"I'm not confusing anyone except myself. You're confusing yourself, too, but you can't blame me for that."

"I can blame whomever I want," she told him, although it made very little sense. She couldn't concentrate on the conversation because she was too busy trying to figure out why she hadn't opened this drawer yet. She moved her hand up over the smooth wood of the tabletop, and Malfoy's hand touched her shoulder and slid down her arm.

"Then don't open that drawer, and you can blame me for stopping you."

"Why do you care so much?"

"I don't want to ruin the surprise," he whispered, and suddenly she knew what he meant. He had convinced himself that it was a dream, and he didn't want her to wake him up yet. She wondered if it was healthy for him to be in denial about this, but nothing else was healthy, so did it really matter?

The problem was that she wanted to believe it, too. She had just a few scattered flashes of the previous night; throwing dirt into a bowl, staring down a drain, a strange little scream, and then the wand broke. She couldn't even remember what it felt like in her hands.

"Maybe it was a dream," she said, just to appease him, and he pressed his lips against the back of her neck. Later, she could think about what she'd do when they couldn't deny it anymore.

_But until then, what's the harm?_

"That sounds much better," he said approvingly. She extracted herself from his embrace and pulled on a housecoat once she was out of the bed. He got out, too, and she realised that he was wearing nothing but boxers and socks, which was nothing short of_ - the sexiest thing I've seen up close in months, possibly years-_indecent.

"You really need to start wearing more clothes to bed," she said.

"Well, I'm glad you told me, now that I've been sleeping in these for a week."

She wrinkled her nose in disgust and looked down at his shorts. "Not those specific ones, right? I bought you a whole pack."

"What am I, a homeless child? Different ones," he said. "Although you're free to continue inspecting them, if you'd like."

Her eyes snapped to the wall above his head instantly. "I would like to do no such thing," she informed him sternly, and he gave a disbelieving snort. "Anyway, I normally don't get a chance to have my eyes assaulted by your sleepwear, because you wake up approximately nine hours after I do every day."

"You'd wake up at two in the afternoon, too, if you didn't have that crap job."

"It is currently nine o'clock, and I am awake without having to work. Theory disproven." She gave him a self-satisfied nod and walked past him out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where she began making coffee.

"So, this is different," he commented, inviting himself to a seat at her table. "You don't have to work, and we're both awake. What on earth will we do all day?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I could have sworn I told you to put some clothes on."

"No, you said I should wear more clothes to bed. You didn't offer any specific dress code for the kitchen table."

She slammed the carafe into position a bit harder than necessary. "Most people wear more clothes to breakfast than they do to bed. For example, I have donned a dressing gown for the occasion." She gestured to her kitchen-appropriate apparel and instantly regretted it when he pounced on the invitation to ogle her.

"Well, you might be most people, but I'm not."

"I guess that's true."

"No, it isn't. You aren't most people, either."

"Will you stop that?" she asked. "I don't know why you think we are some kind of special exception to society. We're just normal people, getting ready for a normal breakfast in our average flat."

"I cannot believe you just said that with a straight face, Granger. I had no idea you had such impeccable comedic delivery."

"We are, though! Look, I'm making coffee and cereal, just like anybody else." She wasn't sure whom this little speech was meant to convince, but it sounded silly even to her ears. Maybe she'd thrown herself a bit farther into denial than she'd intended, all the way into June Cleaver territory.

"In that case, excuse me while I get the paper."

She kept her eyes off him, watching the coffee drip into the pot. A moment later, she heard a rustling sound in the direction of the table, and she turned reluctantly to see Malfoy holding the Daily Prophet in an unsettlingly dad-like manner. He made a disgusted noise and ruffled the paper in her direction.

"Would you believe what the Ministry's up to?" he asked, and she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms across her chest.

"You still aren't wearing enough clothing," she pointed out.

"Perfect, Granger, you were born to play the nagging wife."

"Excuse me?"

"I thought we were playing house."

"This isn't a game!" She was disappointed in herself for letting him get to her again, but there was really no avoiding it. He was just so irritating.

"Sure, it is. But if you'd prefer reality, we could acknowledge that thing we're not talking about." He lifted the paper to hide his face, and she tried to push the image of that under-the-floor thing out of her brain.

"What thing?" she asked, and he lowered the paper to give her a charming smile. "The coffee's done."

"Lovely, dear. Would you fix me a cup?"

"I don't like this game."

"Why not?"

_You're being too nice._

"I don't have to explain my reasons to you."

He raised his eyebrows. "Fair enough. What game would you prefer?"

She considered it. "The same one we always play, I guess. I've gotten rather good at it, I think."

He stood up from the table and stalked toward her across the tile, and she remembered once again that he was wearing next to nothing. "You think we're always playing games?"

"What do you want to call it?"

"That was reality, when we were doing it before," he explained. "It's just that our circumstances have changed now."

"They have? How so?"

He placed his hands on either side of the counter around her, which was probably his most annoying habit. "We can't play the reality game anymore, because you won. We'll have to start a new one. Best two out of three?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, ducking under one of his arms, and he didn't move as she walked around behind him.

"Stop saying that," he said. "That's the one I can't handle. It's a cheap shot, and you know it."

She honestly didn't know what he was talking about again, as usual, but it felt a bit impolite to repeat it then. "I'm just trying to make sure I understand what you're saying," she said.

"No, you're trying to trap me into phrasing things in a way that's more pleasing and useful to you. We've already covered this so many times, and I'm getting really sick of it. You always know what I'm saying, but it helps you categorize it and cross-reference it for later when you make me repeat it. Also, it puts you back in control of the conversation by giving you more time to think of a clever response, and we both know how much you love control."

"That's not what I'm trying to do."

"You've been doing it to everyone for so long that you don't even think about it anymore."

"Fine, I'll stop." He was still facing the sink, but she saw him nod his head.

"That was a point to me," he told her, turning around to grin at her. "I'm already winning this round."

She gaped at him. "You complete bastard! You didn't tell me you were starting the clock."

"I gave the signal. It's not my fault if you didn't recognise it."

"What is the signal?" she demanded.

"If I told you that, you'd be winning again."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, emphasising each word so as to burn it into his ears, and he narrowed his eyes.

"All right, let's not get ahead of ourselves," he said. "We've got the whole day to spend together, after all."

Hermione was pretty sure that round had gone to her, so she awarded herself a point. He fixed two cups of coffee and took a seat back at the table, and then she sat across from him and picked up the second mug. They sat in a mostly uncomfortable silence for a little while, and she was forced to concede that he was right about what he'd said earlier: things had changed between them overnight, and she wasn't sure what it meant or if she liked it.

It was like the whole situation had gotten very real all of a sudden, which had ironically allowed them both to acknowledge the games. Talking to him now about nothing was stiff and forced, like it was hard work for both of them to keep from accidentally saying anything that might matter.

"What do you want to do today?" she asked at last.

"I don't know. There's nowhere to go during the daytime."

"That's not true. We could go out to lunch or something."

"Are you asking me on a date?" He sounded amused, and she wasn't sure if he was making fun of her or not.

"Of course not," she said. "You're the one who wants to be friends, and friends go out to lunch together."

"Yes, but you don't want to be friends."

"After all we've been through together, we might as well be." Those things were mostly his fault, of course, but she was reminded of that bonding moment in her first year when she, Harry, and that third individual had defeated a mountain troll together. Painful and terrifying experiences like that tended to cement people together, whether they wanted to be or not, and she couldn't even talk about the things she and Malfoy had been doing to anyone else. He was an ideal friend candidate, in light of the circumstances.

"I'm glad you feel that way, seeing as neither of us has a whole lot of other options right now."

"Exactly. But if you don't want to go out, we can stay here."

"What else do friends do?" he asked.

"Haven't you got any? What do you do with your friends?"

"The last time I had friends, we liked to gang up on people and stab each other in the back. You and I can't do those things, though: there's nobody here to bother, and we live together, so plotting against each other would be both pointless and too complicated to be worth the trouble."

"So, you aren't plotting against me, then?"

"No, when would I have time to do that?"

"You have loads of free time when I'm asleep and at work."

"I sleep at the same time you do these days, and then I stay asleep almost until you get home. What sort of plotting did you think I was doing, exactly?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "It just seemed like you would've come up with something by now."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I'll get over it eventually."

"Would you like me to start now?"

"No, that won't be necessary."

"Good, because I don't really feel like putting forth that kind of effort. But we still haven't decided what we're going to do with our day off."

Malfoy really was a fan of those plural pronouns. "It's _my_ day off. Every day is your day off."

"It's not my fault I can't get a job. I'm dead, remember?"

"It's not like you'd be getting a job anyway, and I thought we weren't talking about that."

"Talking about what?"

"Never mind."

"We could rent a car," he suggested.

"No, I told you they won't let you do that."

"But you were lying."

"No," she argued. "There isn't a whole lot to do in my flat."

"Yes, I've noticed. I haven't left your flat in weeks, except to go to the pub."

"We could watch a movie," she offered lamely.

"I watched a movie in my Muggle class one time, and it was really boring."

"What movie did you watch?"

"I don't know. It was about this boy who has to save this child princess or something, and then his horse dies in a swamp, and that's about all I remember."

"They showed you _The Neverending Story_?"

"Is that what it's called? How appropriate."

"I love that movie," she defended, mostly out of habit. She didn't actually love it, but she didn't hate it, and it seemed natural to push her opinion as far from his as possible. "It's not boring."

"What movie are we going to watch today?" he asked, swirling the remains of his coffee. Well, if he didn't care, then neither did she. Instead of answering him out loud, she rinsed her mug and went into her living room. He threw himself on the couch while she attempted to think of the longest movie possible, which immediately led her to TV shows on DVD.

"Do you know who David Lynch is?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"No."

"We're going to watch _Twin Peaks._"

"What's it about?"

"No one knows."

"That can't be true."

"You're right, but the answer would be very long and complicated."

"Then I can safely assume that this movie will also be very long and complicated?"

"It's a television show, and yes."

He groaned, and she put in the first DVD. She didn't feel like watching the whole first season of _Twin Peaks_ again, but she was fairly certain that out of every DVD she owned, this would be the least pleasant or entertaining for Malfoy. It was nearly torture, but it got them through all the way to evening, despite his constant questions and unwanted comments on the material.

She even put him under a Silencing Charm for the last two episodes, but he ignored it by sitting very close to her and continuing to "talk." It may have been even worse than the sound of his voice: she could hear the rusty hinge of his jaw and the weird, wet clicks of his teeth and gums. She couldn't take off the charm until the end, though, on principle.

Once the closing credits of the final episode finished running at last, she removed the spell and looked out the window at the waning light.

"That was horrible, Granger. You could have warned me - I didn't know I was still being punished for existing."

"I'm not punishing you, I'm punishing both of us."

_We're bad people, and we deserve it._

"That's so pointless, though." She shrugged. "Let's go out tonight. I'm so sick of this place."

"You're sick of my flat? Well, feel free to leave," she said. She didn't want to think about whether she still wanted him to get out; she'd gotten so used to having him around that she didn't know how she'd feel once he was gone. He'd have to get out eventually, of course, but he couldn't leave now in the middle of everything.

"I told you to be careful about saying that. I'm going to count that one," he informed her. "But no, I don't mean your flat. I mean everything, especially after today. This country, maybe. Have you ever been outside of England?"

"Of course, I have. I've been to France several times, and Italy and Belgium and Switzerland."

"By yourself?"

"No, with my parents."

"So, you probably didn't have a whole lot of fun."

"Yes, I did."

"I was with my parents, too, the only times I've been out of here. I didn't have fun."

"I get along with my parents," she reminded him. She certainly wouldn't have had fun, either, if she'd had to go anywhere with Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

"I suppose that would make a difference, but it's still not the same as going on your own."

"Well, we aren't leaving the country tonight."

"I didn't mean now. Tonight, we should go get drunk."

She was worried about what would happen if she did that, for many reasons.

_I don't know how much longer I can force myself to say 'no' to him, considering I don't want to._

"Why should we do that?" she asked, redirecting her thoughts.

"To celebrate."

"There is absolutely nothing to celebrate, and we shouldn't go out. You could be recognised."

"But you wanted to go to lunch earlier, and we're only going to Muggle London," he argued.

She wasn't thinking about what he said anymore, though; she was thinking about her closet floor. She was thinking about the contents of a jar. "We're not going out tonight. I can't go anywhere. I can't leave that thing alone."

"If you're referring to the creature from our dream, it's not a real baby," he pointed out.

"You're sick," she said, but it didn't come out as biting as she might have hoped. "No, we're staying right here."

"Well then, have you got anything to drink?"

"Not enough," she said, but she left the room anyway to check her freezer. Stuck in the back was a bottle of decent vodka and half a bottle of cheap gin (Ron's favourite), and she placed them on the counter.

"You're right, it's not," Malfoy commented from the doorway.

"This is more than I thought I had. I think it's plenty, personally, but I'm not an alcoholic."

"Neither am I."

"That's debatable. Do you like gin?"

"Alcohol is alcohol."

"See, that's something an alcoholic might say. How do you take it?"

"On the rocks."

"You're really not helping your case, here."

"That's a relief. I'm not a helpful person, and I wouldn't want to confuse you into thinking otherwise."

Hermione couldn't think of anything less likely than accidentally thinking Draco Malfoy was being helpful, but talking was taking quite a bit of energy today, so she didn't bother attempting to consolidate her thoughts into a stinging retort. She fixed him gin on the rocks and made herself a vodka & tonic, and then she pushed his drink into his hand as she brushed past him, back into the living room.

"Where did the spark go?" he asked, as she collapsed onto the couch.

"What spark?"

"You got boring overnight, Granger."

She frowned and took a long sip of her drink. For some reason, that hurt a lot more than it should have. "Maybe I was boring the whole time."

"That's not true, and I don't think it will last. Maybe you're just taking a day off from being fun."

"I was never fun. You told me so yourself. I'm the one who set up the strict anti-fun regulations in this flat, after all."

"I was joking about that. Usually, you're extremely entertaining. That's why I liked living here so much."

"You don't like it anymore?" she asked.

"Not at the moment, but I'm sure you'll catch your second wind soon." She took another sip of her drink and thought about how much she wished she had some limes. Vodka & tonic just wasn't the same without lime. "In fact, maybe it'll happen tonight after you're drunk enough."

"I doubt it. I think I'll stay like this forever. Being fun seems like a lot of work, not that I would know," she commented.

"Now you're depressing me. Cut that out."

"I don't want to. Misery loves company."

"And speaking in clichés."

"Why work out phrasing by myself, when other people have done it better already?"

"And being lazy."

"I'm not the one who sleeps sixteen hours out of the day!"

"And nagging and whining."

Her grip tightened on her glass. "You whine constantly, and you're currently nagging me for not being interesting enough to hold your attention! I don't exist for your entertainment, you know. If you're so bored, get out."

"You're getting close. I'd be careful, if I were you."

"Yes, you would. You'd also be likable, hard-working, and a decent human being."

_No longer true._

"That's much better," he said, moving to sit beside her on the couch. She sighed and drained the rest of her drink. "You should make yourself another. You're feeling better already."

"You have no idea what I'm feeling," she said, but actually he'd been right about that one, perhaps by luck. She took his advice and mixed herself a second glass, and she brought the bottle of gin with her back to the couch, so they could both be equally hungover after this.

"At the end of that glass, I know you'll be feeling drunk," he predicted. "You really can't hold your liquor at all. Sometimes, I can't remember why I like you so much."

"You know what they say about human memory," she said, and he smiled again.

"Never mind. I know why again."

"You don't like me, though."

"No, you're projecting," he said. "You're the one who doesn't like you."

"I'm the one who doesn't like _you_."

"No, that's me. How'd you get that so backwards?"

"I can see why you drink so much, if you talk like you think."

"I do, actually, and so should everybody. You should say all the things you're thinking. I bet they're interesting." He poked her shoulder with his index finger to punctuate the statement, and then he took the gin and began to drink straight from the bottle.

"You used to have such good manners," she remarked. "Have we gotten too comfortable, I wonder?"

He looked her up and down and shook his head. "No, neither of us is gaining weight."

"Why don't you use your glass?"

"Because it would be pointless. I'm going to finish the rest of this anyway. What is a bottle, except a differently-shaped glass?"

She conceded defeat and sipped her drink delicately, as if to set an example. Instead of paying attention, he finished the rest of the bottle. Then, much to her irritation, he leaned over and put his arm around her. She sat up straight and finished her second drink, and then she started standing to fix herself a third, but he pulled her back down.

"Stay a minute, Granger."

"Why?"

"Try and relax."

"I don't think I can. I want another drink."

"That's a brilliant idea, but let's talk first. There are two times when you seem relaxed, and that's when you're asleep and when you're blackout drunk. And do you know what happens in those two situations?"

"No, obviously. By definition, I don't," she said, forcing herself to stay completely still beneath his arm.

"You kiss me. You did that one night, before you got in that fight. At the time, I thought it was just to make that woman jealous, but then you kept doing it."

She shut her eyes, and she couldn't quite make sense of the feelings she was getting just then. She hadn't known she'd kissed him that night, and it was uncomfortable to know that she couldn't remember their first kiss. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did.

"So, this leads me to wonder," he continued. "What would happen if you could manage to relax even when you're awake and functioning?"

"We'll never know."

"Don't you want to try? Don't you think it would be nice not to be wound so tightly for once?"

"I don't know."

"There's a trick to it, you know. I've never been able to sleep, ever since I was a child, and my nanny taught me how."

"You had a nanny?" she interrupted. "Your mother didn't work, though. Why would you need one of those?"

"Until I went to Hogwarts, I thought everyone had nannies. They're for when your father's at work and your mother's asleep. My mother took a lot of naps during the day. I believe she finds it rather exhausting to exist full-time, and I can relate to that." His arm felt heavy on her shoulders, and she wondered if he was drunk or just feeling chatty. Either way, she could relate to his mother in that respect as well. "Don't you want to know the secret?"

"I bet you're going to tell me, either way."

"You start with each part of your body and relax it in turn, from your feet up. Then, the last one is your mind."

He leaned his head on her shoulder, which caused her to stiffen involuntarily, and he laughed at her reaction, which made her stiffen even more. Then, he started whispering body parts very slowly in her ear, which did anything but relax her at first.

Heels, knees, thighs. Hips, chest, neck.

When he got to her head, he started over.

Hands, wrists, arms, shoulders.

After the third time it was actually beginning to work. She allowed her breathing to slow and kept her eyes closed, listening to his voice. It wasn't a completely horrible voice, now that she thought about it; or, more accurately, now that she'd stopped thinking about it so much.

When he got to the top of her this time, he touched the side of her head so that it tipped over onto his shoulder, and she felt her glass being taken out of her hand. She heard it touch the table, and she heard the creak of the sofa as he moved her around to lie on top of him.

Then, she could hear his heart beating. Her mind was slowing down in the most euphoric way, and the weight of his arms on her back was strangely comfortable. The alcohol must have been hitting her harder than she thought, she reasoned, since she wouldn't be Hermione Granger if she wasn't still trying her best to reason things. It was a faraway sort of thinking, though, like there was a fuzzy barrier between her and everything except him. In fact, she realised, there was nothing in between the two of them, now that he'd tripped the no-thinking switch.

_I've been looking for that my entire life. Maybe he _is_ the switch._

There was nothing else left to do. Hermione decided that this actually counted as the first time, because the ones she could remember weren't really kisses. If she told herself she was really drunk, she didn't have to think about anything except this particular man, who may or may not have been hers. He claimed to be, but nobody was anybody's, and...

_Throw the switch._

_This is beautiful._

They really should have moved to the bed – or better yet, not done this at all. The window was right there, and anybody could have just looked in from across the alley and seen Hermione's clothes falling off, which would make that individual the third person who had ever seen that happen. More bizarrely, it would put that person on a list that contained no one else except Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy. Hermione wasn't sure that had ever happened, and she almost laughed trying to think of another time when

_Off_.

_Why did I ever think I wouldn't want this?_

She would really have to deep-clean this couch in the morning, or maybe even buy a new one, or otherwise every time anybody sat on it she'd think about how...

_Yes. Yes._

And what about Harry and - and...

_Yes!_

Ginny they were - tomorrow, and...

_YES_

They did eventually move to the bed.


	11. Leading the Witness

**Chapter 11: Leading the Witness**

Hermione was afraid to get out of bed. She woke up first at six o'clock and lay awake for what felt like a long time, thinking about how much she wished she could get up and put some clothes on without waking him. Ideally, she would put clothes on both of them, but for once in her life Hermione would have settled for fifty percent.

She went back to sleep and woke again at nine o'clock, at which time she spent approximately thirty minutes trying to decide whether or not she regretted it. She came to the half-asleep conclusion that she _should_ have regretted it but didn't, and that this was yet another nail in the coffin of Hermione Granger's virtue. Her moral compass was pointing due south, toward Hell. She regretted not regretting it, though, and that was probably a step in the right direction.

She didn't wake for the third time until one o'clock, and Malfoy was still asleep. He'd rolled over so that he wasn't touching her anymore, so she seized the opportunity and ran, ran, ran away into the shower, snatching her dressing gown off the dresser on the way out. In the safety of her locked bathroom, she started thinking about whether she was going to do it again, which led her to a simple and concise conclusion. Ideally, no. Realistically, yes,

_yes, yes!_

but not right away.

This was not to say, of course, that the act itself had been less than ideal. It was certainly an enjoyable way for two wicked creatures to spend the evening in their _den of sin_, and therein lay the problem. She stayed in the shower almost forever, and she had to wash her hair four times before she could convince herself that she wasn't in a good mood. Sleeping with Draco Malfoy was bad enough - the least she could do was feel appropriately guilty about it. Otherwise, she was just another common tart who did common and tarty things all night long, then turned around the next morning and acted like a respectable human being.

That wasn't completely fair, she realised as she re-re-conditioned. Hermione didn't judge other people for having casual sex, so there was theoretically no reason for her to judge herself. On the other hand, those other people (well, most of them) weren't having sex with Draco Malfoy. Hermione _was_. She shuddered at the thought and applied another generous share of conditioner, making sure to rub her scalp extra hard, because this wouldn't have happened if it could keep a better handle on her wayward brain.

As long as she could remember and even before that, according to her parents, Hermione's brain had received overwhelmingly positive reviews. But those people didn't realise that it was full of terrible images and ideas, squeezed in right next to all the facts and intelligent thoughts. After that, all the remaining grey matter was devoted to making stupid, stupid, absolutely unjustifiable decisions and lying and keeping horrible secrets. If some other person could spend a day trapped in Hermione's brain, she was convinced that they wouldn't think it was so smart anymore.

She dried her hair before leaving the bathroom and applied her makeup at a leisurely pace. When she finally emerged in her dressing gown, it was well past two, and Malfoy was still in her bed, most likely naked. She couldn't tell for sure due to some strategic sheet placement, but she didn't need to check.

"Good morning," he said as she entered the room. "Don't worry - I never liked the ocean anyway."

"What?" she asked, against her better judgment.

"You took an hour-long shower."

"I had to condition my hair," she informed him.

"Did you get all the secrets out of it?"

"Can't you make sense for five minutes?"

"I made sense the whole time you were in the shower, and you missed it," he said. "That's what happens when you waste water."

"You miss once-in-a-lifetime occurrences? I don't believe you, anyway."

"Well, you don't have to. I know it happened, and that's good enough for me."

Hermione suspected that Malfoy actually made even less sense than usual when he was left alone with his thoughts; in fact, she wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he thought in dead languages or streams of binary code. That would explain a few things, actually: maybe something was lost when he tried to translate the bizarre transmissions that went through his mind into English words. She wasn't going to tell him that, though.

"My friends are going to be coming soon," she said instead. "Do you want something to eat before they get here?"

He raised his eyebrows lasciviously, and she put a hand over her eyes and sighed. "Well, if you're offering…"

"That was awful. Grow up."

"I was referring to food, thank you. Your insistence on reading into everything I say tells more about you than it does about me."

"I'm not reading into your words, I'm watching you flail your eyebrows around."

"That's a facial tic," he explained, with disgusting false sincerity. "I can't control that."

"So, you want food," she stated, getting back to the subject at hand.

"Yes, it's about time for breakfast."

"I suppose it must be breakfast time somewhere," she said. "I'll make you cereal, but you can't eat it unless you wear a shirt and trousers."

He nodded and started getting out of bed, and she hurried from the room again, like a startled woodland creature. It wasn't fair that she was being chased around her own home like this, even if it was all in her head; furthermore, cat-and-mouse games only worked smoothly in the long term when there was one cat and one mouse, and both players knew who was who. She and Malfoy were switching roles by the hour, and it was really confusing.

When he made it into the kitchen, she was gratified to see that he'd managed to put on respectable clothing, so she fed him as a reward.

"It's a good thing nothing's gotten awkward around here," he remarked, and she couldn't decide if he was being sarcastic.

"Right. Good thing," she said to the table.

"Some people think that sex complicates things, but I've never found that to be true."

"Oh."

"And that's a relief. It would be unfortunate if our situation were to become complicated."

She looked up at him in disbelief, but she could tell from the look on his face that he'd been joking that time. "Yes, I can't imagine. I'm glad we'll never have to worry about that, since our lives are so very simple and straightforward," she replied.

He stopped talking while he ate, and Hermione looked back at the table. What he'd said had actually made her feel better about the whole thing, oddly enough - their lives were already so intensely, ridiculously complicated that she needn't waste her time worrying about the repercussions of having sex with him. She'd thought she was feeling especially awkward that day, but upon further evaluation it seemed that she was only as high-strung as she'd been every day for years. In other words, her nerves were tight as a drum and possibly about to snap.

_Maybe I'm only noticing it because I actually managed to relax last night._

She made coffee and poured them each a cup, which she would have been perfectly happy to drink in silence. In fact, Malfoy was more than welcome to go back to sleep and leave her alone, but he apparently felt the need to keep the conversation moving.

"I don't expect you follow Quidditch at all, do you?"

"No."

"So, you wouldn't happen to know how the Falcons are doing in the pre-season?" he asked hopefully.

"Don't they cover that in the Prophet?"

"I don't know, I haven't read it."

"Then why are you asking me? It's lazy to ask other people for answers when you could look them up yourself."

"No, it isn't. It's a waste of time if I spend, say, ten minutes searching through the newspaper for the answer to my question, if you could have told me off the top of your head."

_That's me, everyone's personal encyclopedia._

"Well, I can't. The Prophet's over there, if it's so important to you," she said, gesturing toward the counter.

"No, it doesn't matter," he said, shrugging.

"If it doesn't matter, why did you ask?"

"I thought it did for a minute, but then I realised it doesn't."

"Why not?" she demanded. On some level, she was getting used to his ideological flips, but only in the same way that a person was used to a roller coaster half-way through the ride.

"You don't know it," he said, as though that should have been very obvious. "If it were important, you would know it."

"That's never been true, and it especially isn't right now." If necessary, Hermione could catalogue all the important things she'd failed to realise throughout this entire

_exciting adventure!_

nightmare. She didn't regret forcing Malfoy to sober up on her couch, since he would probably have died otherwise, but she should have taken him seriously when he said he didn't have a place to go. If she'd taken that into account, she never would have detained him, and none of this would have ever happened.

In fact, she could even take it back two and a half years - she should've known living above a pub was a terrible idea, but it was an incredible price for such a spacious flat. Like most of her life and even Hermione herself, it had looked good on paper. Of course, whether Hermione still looked good in that regard depended on which paper someone was reading. For example, if they were looking at the paper which said, "this person has had sex with Draco Malfoy," then_ no_. Two-dimensional Hermione wasn't looking so great.

Granted, the back of that same sheet read: "…but before that, she hardly did anything for herself for approximately ten years." Alas, nobody ever bothered to read the fine print. Fortunately, Malfoy started talking again before she could force her flimsy metaphor to stretch any further.

"Are you insufferably arrogant, or do you suffer from low self-esteem?" he asked, as though it were a perfectly normal question. "I still can't decide."

"You have no right to ask me such an offensive question."

"Arrogant."

"I'm certainly no more arrogant than you are."

"Arrogant again."

"Fine, you can think whatever you want. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"See? That one was low self-esteem."

"How do you figure?" she demanded. "I thought it was arrogant."

"The way your pitch went up at the end revealed doubt," he explained.

She glared down at her coffee. "Well, what about you? Are you evil or insane?"

"Are those really my only two options? How about, am I lost or found? Dead or alive?"

"You're just trying to change the subject."

"Well, I can't take a conversation seriously if it's with a person who still thinks human beings can be good or evil. You've spent too much time with the wrong sort of people."

"Do you have any concept of the irony in what you just said?"

"No, I do not, but thanks for asking. Try and think about it differently, for once. You've thrown your lot in with the people whose _goodness_ exists solely as a counterpoint to the perceived evil of their foes. If they run out of enemies, they aren't good anymore. They're just like anybody else, so they have to keep the bad guys on the other side of the fence."

"That's not true at all. Good people aren't just good by comparison; they've taken a series of actions which resulted in a positive effect on other people."

"And you think that I've had a negative effect on humanity at large, and that's what makes me evil."

"Or insane."

"It's so kind of you to make such concessions for a terrible person like me," he told her bitterly. "You're so very good that you're willing to provide me with a neatly-packed excuse for whatever harm you think I've caused society."

"All right, I don't think people are good or evil," she told him, relenting. "I think actions can be, and people are defined by their actions, but that still doesn't mean that it makes sense to apply that sort of label to human beings. I only said that because of what you asked me."

He looked at her, considered it, and nodded. "In that case, I withdraw my question."

"What? That's all you have to say? Malfoy, I swear, you're going to make me crazy. And then we're both going to be crazy!"

"I think that at this point in our partnership, it would be appropriate to ask that you stop calling me crazy and evil."

_Maybe it is a bit hypocritical of me._

"All right, then is it appropriate for me to ask you to stop acting that way? Also, 'partnership'? Really?"

"I'd like to see you come up with a better name for whatever we've got, since we're all trying to be so appropriate around here," he said. "All of a sudden," he added pointedly, after a brief pause.

Hermione scanned through a collection of different words in her mind, from "lovers" to "cellmates," and she was forced to concede that "partnership" wasn't so bad by comparison. "I don't see why we need name for it at all," she argued. "We're here, and it's not like either of us can leave."

"No, we can both leave, but we choose not to."

She glanced at the clock, eager to get out of this complete disaster of a conversation. "As much as I enjoy arguing about nonsense for no reason, I think it's time I started cooking. Are you going to hide under the bed?"

"Why can't I just lie _in_ the bed? Do your friends have a reason to go in your bedroom?"

Hermione took a second to picture that: Harry and Ginny walking into her room to find the missing-presumed-dead Draco Malfoy snuggled up in her bed, half-naked. Her brain almost exploded when she tried to imagine what they'd say, though, so she had to stop half-way through. "It's unlikely that they would, but I still don't like those odds. It'll only be a few hours."

"Can you charm the floor softer?"

"I suppose."

Malfoy stayed in the kitchen while she changed, straightened up her room, and cast a cushioning charm on part of the floor. She had to settle for the clothes in her dresser drawers, though, because it was hard to enter a closet when a person couldn't even look directly at the door. Once that was done, she stowed the contraband under the bed, locked her bedroom door from the outside, and went back to the living room feeling relatively secure.

Hermione knew a total of sixteen different cleaning charms, each of which was useful in different circumstances. She cast every one of them on her couch, but it still didn't seem good enough, although the colour had faded noticeably by the end. She had just enough time to cook a fairly respectable meal before Harry and Ginny arrived.

When she heard the knock, she placed her palm flat on the door and took ten-seconds worth of calming breaths before pulling it open. Harry and Ginny hugged her tightly in turn, and it felt like a very long time since she'd been near them.

"It's so good to see you," she said.

_Guess what? I had sex._

"You, too," Ginny said, grinning widely. "Once James is a bit less of a handful, hopefully we can see each other more than once a week."

"Yeah, I think it's a bit early to be sticking him with a babysitter too often," Harry added.

"I understand," Hermione said, even though she didn't actually know what it was like to have grown a little human parasite inside her body.

_But I could theoretically have a baby, if I stopped using birth control. Because I am a person who has sex, you see._

As Hermione served the food, Ginny began to update her about James. She listened well enough to remember the important details, should there be a quiz. Unfortunately, the conversation then took an unexpected turn toward Draco Malfoy.

"So, Hermione," Harry began, "how's your investigation going?"

"I really think I'm making progress."

_Toward eternal damnation._

"I was wondering, though," she continued. "Have you searched Knockturn Alley at all? Malfoy's fiancée said he knew some of the shopkeepers there."

"We sent an Auror out, but nobody had anything to say to him," Harry said. "He said it didn't seem like they were hiding anything - he got the feeling that they weren't only annoyed about being questioned, but some of them were also annoyed that they didn't know where Malfoy was. _If_ they really didn't, that is. But he said the owner of Borgin & Burke's was particularly snappish, as though he were personally wounded by Malfoy's disappearance. That could be something to look into, but it could also be a dead end, and we weren't making enough headway to justify taking Aurors away from their other duties any longer."

Harry shrugged noncommittally at the end of his explanation, and Hermione could tell that he really didn't have the energy to care one bit whether Malfoy was ever found, now that it was no longer his job. He'd probably been counting down the days until he could hand off the assignment. What he'd said reminded her of Malfoy's business with Goyle though, so she had to do a bit more fishing before she let him off the hook.

"The owner of Borgin & Burke's, the Dark Arts shop? What did he say?" she asked.

"I wasn't there, but apparently Mr. Borgin said something to the effect of, 'nobody wishes they knew where that rotten bastard is more than I do.' It wasn't flattering, so he obviously wasn't concerned for the safety of his best mate or anything like that - plus he was defensive because he thought he was being accused. Our Auror speculates that Malfoy probably owed him money or something, but Borgin wouldn't elaborate. He also implied that he knew for sure that Malfoy wasn't dead, though, which is strange because everyone else in Knockturn Alley essentially said the opposite. We got a lot of, 'oh, the Malfoy brat? Dead in a gutter, mark my words,' and similar charming sentiments. Really pleasant bunch, the whole lot of them," he concluded.

"I wouldn't expect any less," Ginny said. "Is that where you're going next, Hermione?"

"No, I got a few leads from Lucius Malfoy for friends of his son. I think I'll be paying them a visit first."

"But you talked to Astoria Greengrass?"

"I did, but she didn't know anything. She's in mourning already."

"That's not a bad idea, honestly," Ginny remarked. "He's been missing for, what, almost a month now? And the entire Auror department couldn't find him? I'm no Seer, but I'd say he's dead." Maybe it was all the brain poison she'd been absorbing lately, but Hermione felt it was a bit callous.

"Actually, I'm starting to think the opposite," Harry said. "Dead bodies are sometimes easier to find than living ones, since dead people don't care whether you find them or not. It's not my job anymore, and I'd rather not spend much more time thinking about Malfoy, but I'd guess he's alive and very well-hidden."

"You think he doesn't want to be found, then?" Hermione asked. She wondered if she was treading on thin ice talking about this with Harry, but it made sense that he'd think that. Hypothetically, if Malfoy were hiding out in somebody else's flat, she was fairly certain she would have come to the same conclusion with respect to the evidence at hand. Of course, once the plan was complete, it wouldn't matter what anybody thought.

"Definitely not. We started our search by looking for anyone with a motive to kill or kidnap him, and the ones on our list wouldn't have waited this long to do it - their reasons were all closely connected to the War, and the Malfoys have pissed off surprisingly few people in the last five years. Granted, they've been trapped in their house the whole time, but you'd think Lucius Malfoy wouldn't need close physical proximity or a working wand to make people mad at him. Anyway, I'd bet anything he's run away of his own volition. I don't know why he'd want to do that, of course, but that's why I'm an Auror instead of a psychiatrist."

"Right," she said. "I've heard from a few sources that he had a somewhat reckless lifestyle, though. I still wouldn't be surprised if he got himself killed."

"I don't think I'd really be _surprised_," Harry said, "but I think we would have found the body by now. As of right now, I don't think that's what happened. That's just my personal opinion, though."

Hermione nodded and concentrated on staying calm finishing her dinner, while Harry and Ginny began to discuss Harry's latest assignment for the Auror department - something about part-vampire Romanian immigrants, and how the Ministry was trying to decide if they had enough vampire blood to be placed on a watch list.

Interviewing vampires sounded exciting, and Hermione felt a slight twinge of jealousy until she remembered just how exciting her life actually was these days. She didn't have a whole lot to contribute to the conversation, but Harry was happy to entertain them with stories of the remaining vampire colonies in Transylvania, which meant that she was free to get lost in her thoughts.

It could complicate things if the Aurors were convinced that Malfoy was alive, but Harry had only offered his personal analysis, and she was afraid to bring the subject back around and ask what everyone else thought. It also seemed strange to her that they'd sent someone to Knockturn Alley as an Auror on official Ministry business, as though they expected to be invited in for tea and biscuits. When Hermione went to Borgin & Burkes, she was certainly not planning on flashing her badge - she couldn't think of a faster way to shut mouths. On the other hand, their shortsightedness could prove advantageous for her: if she found information that they couldn't, it would be because they weren't asking properly.

Hermione found herself relaxing more than usual as the evening stretched on, and she was in a good spirits by the time Harry and Ginny took their leave, much later than usual. Denial, it seemed, could be highly pleasant when used properly.

When she let Malfoy out from under her bed, he seemed a bit irritated that he'd been kept under there for so long, but he still ate the leftovers without complaint.

"How are your friends?" he asked after he'd finished eating, and Hermione reckoned that the food must have improved his sour mood.

"They're fine," she said.

"What are we going to do tonight?"

"Nothing. I'm visiting _your_ friends tomorrow, and I was thinking I'd go to bed early."

"Those people aren't my friends."

"What about Goyle?"

"More of an associate, really."

"I'm going to find out what you were buying at Borgin & Burkes," she said.

"Maybe you will. I don't care, either way."

"If you don't care, why won't you just tell me?"

"Because it doesn't matter. I'm doing you a favour here, Granger - I wouldn't want to fill your head with useless information."

"Why won't you let me judge for myself whether or not it matters?"

"Because you'd get it wrong. You would probably think it was important, but it isn't. I told you: I don't need it anymore."

"Fine." She pressed her lips together and cleared his plate from the table, and then she went to her room and changed into pyjamas. She let Malfoy in, and he pressed against her back in the bed.

"Are you sure we're not going to do anything tonight?" he whispered in her ear, and she

_was reconsidering._

bristled at the sensation.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" she whispered back.

"I try not to put too much stock in the words you say."

"Because you always think I'm lying."

"I've changed my mind about that, and I think it's another thing we have in common. You really do believe all those ridiculous things you say, as you're saying them." His hand was crawling over her leg while he spoke, and she tried to ignore it. "But that doesn't make them any less ridiculous."

He squeezed her hip abruptly, and she turned around to tell him to stop, but he kissed her without warning. Well, fine. She could beat him at this game, too, with a little practice.

* * *

On Monday morning, Hermione didn't bother going into the Ministry at all, instead going straight to the Parkinson estate. She had to go through the whole entry process again, and there was something that rubbed her the wrong way about people who thought they were too good to answer their own doors, especially since they felt the need to enslave innocent creatures to do it for them.

Pansy Parkinson swished into the entryway, wearing a gown that had probably cost Hermione's yearly salary. She hated to admit it, and she usually lied when it came up in conversation, but Hermione had secretly never been able to understand why all her friends thought Pansy was so physically ugly. Maybe it was just the makeup and the expensive clothing, but she thought Pansy looked like a perfect example of high-bred beauty. It was a flat, generic sort of beauty, but it was there nonetheless. She also suspected that Pansy had paid for some magical enhancement after Hogwarts, because her nose looked a lot more shapely and delicate than Hermione remembered.

"_Officer_ Granger," she greeted, not attempting to hide her critical evaluation of Hermione's clothing. "It's nice to see that wealthy witches can find it in their hearts to donate last season's shoes to charity."

Hermione turned her attention to the embellished collar of Pansy's gown, which appeared to feature cockatrice feathers. "It would be nicer if they could refrain from slaughtering endangered magical creatures and making them into dresses," she retorted.

"Oh, how kind of you to notice," Pansy replied, fingering the orange plumage at her throat. At the same time, she took the opportunity to call attention to her left hand, providing Hermione with an excellent view of her outrageously gaudy engagement ring. "I almost want to let you touch it, since you'll never be able to wear such fine couture, but I am not in the habit of letting Mudbloods touch me."

_Your ex-boyfriend is._

"What did you say?" Hermione asked.

"Mudblood," she repeated. "I know there are some unfortunate souls who aren't allowed to use that word anymore, so I'm saying it for them, too. I didn't do anything wrong, and my wand still does everything a wand should do, and I can say what I like."

Hermione really, really wished she had something on Pansy to throw out, but she didn't. This woman hadn't been accused of any criminal activity during the War or after, and unfortunately it was still perfectly legal to be a nasty and prejudiced person, even to Ministry officials - especially if someone was a nasty, prejudiced, and _extremely wealthy_ person.

"All right, I didn't come here to discuss fashion or your ignorance, Miss Parkinson," she said. "I'm here for information about the Malfoy disappearance."

"Well, you're in the wrong place," she replied, inspecting her nails. "I don't know anything."

"When were you last in contact with Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said, turning her hand over to watch the light play on her ring. "A month before he went away, maybe? Something like that. I said 'hello' to him at his cousin's debutante ball."

"Before he went away," Hermione repeated. "Why would you phrase it like that?"

"That's what happened. I don't want you to think he told me he was leaving or anything, since he most certainly did not. Draco and I ran in the same circles, but we weren't overly close."

"You think he left on his own, then."

"I do, not that it matters. I told you I don't know anything for sure, and I don't know why I'm wasting my time sharing my opinions with someone like you."

"I don't think either of us needs to waste any more time here," she said. "I've known for years that you don't know anything about anything, but I had to make sure just in case. Good day, Miss Parkinson."

Pansy glanced up briefly and wiggled her fingers in a condescending sort of wave, and Hermione showed herself out. She tended to steer clear of the Society section of the Prophet because it bored her immensely to read about rich people having fun, but she wished she'd picked it up often enough to see who'd given Pansy that ring. She knew that Blaise Zabini was married to Daphne Greengrass, so it wasn't him, but she wasn't sure which other Pureblood wizards were still unattached.

Blaise Zabini, of course, was next on her list of people to visit. She remembered him as a quiet, reserved man in school, and she'd heard that he and his wife generally kept to themselves. They'd definitely done a better job than Pansy of staying out of the tabloids in the years after the War, and what she had read made them sound like decent people, so she didn't think he'd be giving her a lot of a trouble.

She walked back across the grounds and Apparated directly to Zabini Enterprises, Inc. Blaise Zabini ran the successful company, which had bought out the manufacturing plants for a number of magical objects, most notably high-end racing brooms. The corporate offices were located in Muggle London in the same way that Grimmauld Place was: they occupied the top four floors of a Muggle office building. The Muggles were unaware that these extra stories existed, and they were accessible only by Apparition, the Floo network, or through a magical door at the rear of the building, which the Muggles believed was always locked. As an added bonus, Goyle worked for Zabini, so she wouldn't have to make two trips to speak with them both.

Hermione landed in the main lobby, where she showed her Ministry credentials at the front desk. The receptionist asked her to take a seat, so she leafed through a copy of Witch Weekly and listened to the bland elevator jazz while she waited. Witch Weekly purported to offer twenty-five new ways to please her man,

_and I've finally got one of those,_

but it appeared to be almost the exact same list she'd read in her very first copy of Witch Weekly, at the age of sixteen. It hadn't actually been _hers_, of course - it was Ginny's, and Hermione had pretended that she didn't care what it said. She secretly had back then, but she didn't now, and it was fifteen minutes before a woman came into the lobby to show her to the CEO's office on the top floor.

Blaise Zabini's office was sophisticated and tastefully decorated, provided that a person really liked chrome. Hermione thought it was very cold, in both appearance and temperature, and she couldn't read Blaise's expression as he reached out to shake her hand. That felt nice, though: apparently, there was at least one Pureblood who was willing to greet Muggle-born visitors like a civilized human being.

"Good morning, Miss Granger," he said. "How may I help you?"

"I'm investigating the Malfoy disappearance on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When were you last in contact with Mr. Malfoy?"

He moved his eyes around the room as he thought. "The beginning of May. We were not in frequent contact, despite his engagement to my sister-in-law."

"I see. Have you heard anything that might be useful to the Ministry?" Blaise jerked his head back and forth once, quickly. "Can you think of anyone who might know more than you do?"

"I have heard no news of Mr. Malfoy, but I am aware that he kept company with Gregory Goyle. If necessary, my assistant can show you to Mr. Goyle's office."

"I would appreciate that. I'm sorry to take up your time, Mr. Zabini," she said.

"Not at all," he told her, still with no emotion in his voice, and she was glad to be leaving his office despite his polite reception. His stony manner was a bit creepy in its own right.

Mentally checking Blaise off her list, Hermione followed his assistant back down the stairs to meet with Goyle, who was the only one so far that actually mattered. Not because Goyle might be able to tell her where Malfoy was, obviously, but because she hoped she could coax him into revealing what he and Malfoy were buying.

Hermione was aware that the Goyle family had been hit particularly hard by the War: Goyle's father had never recovered from the injuries he sustained during the Final Battle, and he remained bedridden, receiving home care from the family's remaining house elves. Gregory Goyle had been offered a low-level position at Zabini Enterprises, probably as an act of charity (or blackmail - it could have gone either way with this crowd), and he was supporting both of his parents.

She wasn't expecting any manners from this man, so she wasn't surprised when he didn't even stand up from his desk, much less shake her hand.

"Mr. Goyle, I am investigating the Malfoy disappearance on behalf of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When were you last in contact with Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, placing her hands on his desk. He narrowed his eyes at them like he wanted to brush them off, but instead he crossed his arms across his chest.

"Don't remember," he drawled.

"Are you sure? I've heard from multiple sources that you and Mr. Malfoy were close friends," she said, which was stretching the truth a bit.

"He's not my friend," Goyle said, and she looked at him closely while he avoided her eyes. She realised suddenly that he wasn't lying; on the contrary, he actually seemed hurt.

"So, Mr. Malfoy didn't tell you where he was going," she tried, "but you think he should have."

"He didn't tell me anything."

"Do you think Mr. Malfoy is dead?"

"No, not dead."

"How do you know?"

"I just know. He's not dead."

"Have you spoken to Mr. Malfoy since his disappearance?"

"No."

"Then how can you be so sure that he isn't dead?"

Goyle moved his eyes back to her, frustrated. "I told you I don't know anything. Go away. I'm at work."

"But you said you did know," she said, trying to soften her voice. "You said you knew he wasn't dead. How?"

"I don't have to tell you."

"But why shouldn't you?" Hermione asked, going out on a limb. "Malfoy's gone now. He left you behind. Why would you want to protect him?"

Goyle's eyes widened just a little bit, and she knew she'd said something with particular meaning to him, although she couldn't be completely sure what it was. "I don't want to protect him anymore. Spent too much time doing that, didn't get nothing back," he muttered.

"Do you want us to find him?"

"I don't care. It's too late."

"Too late for what?"

"It's just too late. It doesn't matter anymore."

"But does _he_ want us to find him?" she asked. She could feel that she was getting closer, playing off Goyle's emotions.

"No."

"And he betrayed you, didn't he?" Goyle didn't respond, but she knew it was true. "Don't you want to tell me where he went?"

"I don't know, okay?" Goyle said. "I don't know, and that's the problem!"

"Why is that a problem?"

"He wasn't supposed to go yet! I can't afford…" He trailed off and narrowed his eyes at her again. "This isn't none of your business. I can't tell you anything else."

"What do you mean, 'yet'? What can't you afford?" she asked, but she could tell she'd hit a wall. Goyle clearly knew he'd said too much already, and he set his jaw and shook his head. "All right, Mr. Goyle. I'll be leaving you with my contact information, and remember that anything you tell me is completely confidential. Even if we find Mr. Malfoy, he will have no way of knowing what you've told me. Think about it."

She used her wand to conjure a business card, which she placed on his desk, but he wouldn't even look at her again until she left the office. She glanced back as she opened the door, though, and he was studying her card.


	12. Arson

**Chapter 12: Arson**

Malfoy knew something that Hermione did not, but she was going to find out.

If it were anyone else, even one of her closest friends, she'd be brainstorming for ways to ease him into revealing the information she needed. Hermione had become quite skilled in this maneuver back in school, when Harry used to keep secrets from her like it was his job. There were several ways to go about it, and the simplest one was to convince the person not only that they wanted to tell her, but also that telling her had been their idea. If that didn't work, a more difficult back-up was to get the information in such a way that they didn't even know they'd given it to her.

She was not generally in the business of tricking her friends, and such methods were a last resort, but she believed that it was always for the greater good when she achieved her goal.

_And who would refute me?_

Hermione was of the opinion that everyone had at least one talent or special skill, even if they weren't sure what it was or how to develop it, and hers was processing information.

_Everyone knows that I know best._

Put simply, she could understand most things better than most people; therefore, it was only logical that she should be privy to important facts.

_They've told me so many times that I could not possibly forget. I do not forget._

Before going home, she stopped at a café in Diagon Alley to collect her thoughts. She ordered a coffee, sat in the sun, and pulled out her notebook. At the top of the first blank page, she wrote down a few of her knowns: Malfoy and Goyle had formed some kind of partnership or agreement, which meant that they must have shared a common goal. To reach that goal, they must have needed some kind of Dark or illegal object from Borgin & Burkes.

She would start at the beginning: what needs did Malfoy and Goyle have in common? Hermione loved charts and graphs, so she drew a Venn Diagram and wrote their names at the top. She could only come up with two things Goyle needed, since she didn't know him very well: money and external brainpower. Malfoy didn't need either of those things. She was stuck already, and Goyle's words kept playing over and over again in her mind: "I can't afford…"

At the bottom of the page, Hermione scrawled her conclusions: Malfoy and Goyle could have been buying absolutely anything, for any reason, after which one or both of them may or may not have planned to depart for an unknown location. Then, she scribbled viciously across the rest of the page, slammed her notebook shut, and downed the rest of her lukewarm coffee in one gulp. She noticed two businessmen looking at her like she was crazy from a few tables away, and she huffed indignantly, as though this were a ridiculous thing to think.

Sadly, she really couldn't blame anybody for thinking she was off-balance lately. It wasn't a completely inaccurate way to describe the situation, but that didn't mean it was her fault. Maybe it was Malfoy's fault, but she was beginning to doubt that, which meant that she must have had some kind of long-dormant crazy gene hidden somewhere in her DNA. Hermione did have a few spacey aunts on her mum's side, so she probably got it from them. Dementia didn't just spring out of nowhere: the seeds had to be planted and watered with loving care, and some kind of lunatic gardener had to come by periodically and weed out all the sanity. Malfoy was definitely her gardener, but that didn't mean he'd planted the seeds.

Even worse, Hermione had apparently lost the ability to make good analogies in her head, a skill which had always pleased her greatly. Now she was mixing metaphors left and right, like Faulkner in a blender. To top it all off, the businessmen were still staring and whispering to each other like a couple of killer bees at a board meeting! She made like a tree and Apparated back to her flat.

Malfoy was still there, which was marginally better than the alternative. She'd expected him to be asleep, but instead he was sitting on her couch and looking out the window.

"I can't wait until we get out of here," he said, without bothering to look at her.

"I didn't know we had plans to go somewhere."

"You can't possibly have thought we were going to stay here. Why would we do that?"

"We have nowhere else to go."

"We could go anywhere, once this is over."

_, but how different would it really be?_

She studied the back of his head. It wasn't the worst idea she'd ever heard, but the idea itself wasn't the problem: it was that "we" again. Theoretically, after this was done (which she couldn't even begin to think about yet), they could each go anywhere _separately_, but he seemed to be planning to go together. She wasn't about to clarify, but it sounded like he actually wanted to be with her, and not even because he needed her. It was a nice change.

"Like where?" she asked, after a long pause.

_and what could be safer than rock bottom?_

"I told you: anywhere. Don't you ever listen?"

There was the other issue, of course: even if he wanted to be with her, she didn't know if she would voluntarily choose to be around him. She still thought he was annoying, really for real, even after all these weeks of constant contact. On the other hand, wasn't anyone annoying under those circumstances? Also, being irritating was far from the worst flaw someone could have. For example, they could be boring or needy or dim-witted, and Malfoy was none of those things. He had a whole host of dangerous and terrible flaws, but at least he was interesting and smart.

He turned to look at her when she didn't respond. "Now that we're friends, you should cook me dinner," he said. "You cook for your other friends."

"In that case, you should think of something friendly to do for me," she pointed out. "There has to be something."

_quid pro quo_

"I do plenty for you. I keep you entertained, for one. You probably don't want to talk about the other things I do for you," he said meaningfully, and she tried not to blush. "And so I'm not going to. Isn't that thoughtful of me?"

"What do you want for dinner?" she asked, changing the subject. She had to make dinner anyway, so it might as well be for both of them. The main reason she never cooked for him was because he was usually asleep at dinner time.

"I like surprises," he said.

She went to the kitchen and tied on her apron, and he sat at the table.

"I saw Pansy Parkinson today," she said, once she'd gathered her ingredients and placed a pot of water on the stove.

"That's unfortunate."

"Yes, it was. She's engaged," she said, dragging raw chicken through the flour.

"And you want to know who'd marry her," he surmised. "I don't blame you. I found it strange myself, but I can't really talk. I found somebody who wanted to marry _me_, and I don't even have fake boobs."

She grinned, since he couldn't see her face anyway. It was funny. "I thought it was just her nose that was magically enhanced."

"She spent a year abroad and came back with a whole new body, and everyone had to act like she'd always looked like that. She even got two inches taller."

"Interesting," she said, vindicated. She didn't have a ring or a dead bird wrapped around her neck, but at least she still had all the same parts she was born with. She dropped some butter into a skillet and watched it melt. "Who's she marrying?"

"I can't remember his name, but he was one of Blaise Zabini's initial backers. They met at some corporate function, which I only remember because it was a rather comical situation. Pansy got Goyle to bring her as his date specifically so that she could upgrade to an aging rich bloke, and her future husband is in his sixties."

"Well, I'm sure they'll be very happy together."

"If by 'they,' you mean Pansy and her galleons."

No one spoke again until she'd finished cooking, and Hermione kept herself busy thinking about how she would bring up her next subject. She knew it probably wouldn't help to ask him about Goyle and Mr. Borgin, but she was going to try anyway. She set two plates of food on the table, sat across from him, and held her fork above her food until he'd taken a bite.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked. "It's good. You know it is."

"It's polite to wait for guests to eat first." She shrugged and began to cut her chicken.

"Except I'm not a guest," he pointed out. "I live here, and it would be more polite if you would acknowledge that."

"That's not what I meant."

"What are you really waiting for, then?" He ate quickly in small bites, and it didn't look like he chewed much before he swallowed them. Conversely, Hermione was concentrating on chewing each bite twenty-six times, or twenty-three or whatever the recommendation was, so as not to get a stomach ache.

"Goyle is convinced that you're alive. He says he's quite certain."

"Oh, you talked to Goyle? How's he doing?"

"He's very upset, mostly with you. How does he know you're alive?"

"He doesn't. He just thinks so. I guess I can see why he'd think that, but I can promise you he doesn't have any proof. He's just mad because I can't help him anymore."

"Help him with what?" She clenched her fingers around her silverware, thinking about sharp things and dull things.

"Why can't you let this go? My association with Goyle has come to an end, and he'll get over it soon enough. It's almost ironic - he's the only person with enough scraps of information about my habits and desires to figure out what happened to me, if he were smart enough. If you and Goyle were switched, you'd find me."

Hermione rearranged her food, stabbing her chicken a few times for good measure, but it didn't stop her from getting more annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean? Stop avoiding the issue. What were you and Goyle buying? What were you planning to do?"

"I keep trying to tell you, it doesn't matter. If you want to know so bad, you can figure it out. It's a matter of outsmarting Goyle at this point, and don't tell me you can't do that. Clearly, he said too much to you, which doesn't surprise me at all."

"He said you betrayed him." If Malfoy's emotions made sense, maybe she could have come up with a way to make him angry, but they didn't. As long as he was calm, he could turn everything neatly back around to her.

"I didn't. Maybe it would count as betrayal if I'd _planned_ to end up here without telling him, but this was just a happy accident."

'Happy' wasn't exactly the word for this accident, in Hermione's opinion. "So your betrayal was leaving him?"

"No, my betrayal was leaving without him. Maybe they're no different, but I think it's a useful distinction. Look at me, giving you hints. Isn't that generous?"

"Leaving without him," she repeated, thinking carefully. "So, you both wanted to leave? Were you going to leave together?"

"No, because this happened," he explained. "Nothing that didn't happen was ever going to happen. The window of time has passed when that would have been possible."

"What could you buy at Borgin & Burkes to help you with that?" she asked for what felt like the hundredth time, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. "Where were you going to go?"

"Nowhere that would have worked out as well as this. Maybe we've all learned a valuable lesson here, Granger: money can't buy happiness." He gave her a condescending smile between bites, and she felt like jamming her fork down his throat.

"I'm not sure if I've learned anything, but I think I should have by now, and it wouldn't have been that." She tried to think of something she'd learned, but all she could come up with was 'never help a dying person,' and that didn't sound right. 'Don't talk to strangers,' maybe? Malfoy wasn't a stranger, but she'd thought he was in the beginning and talked to him anyway. Kindergarten had failed her.

"Why'd you make two plates if you're not going to eat anything?" he asked.

"I thought I was hungry, but I'm not anymore."

"Does this mean you're giving up trying to figure out this big secret that you think is so important?"

"No." She was just taking a break. Things were starting to fit together, and thinking about it too hard would burn her out, as though she wasn't burnt out enough already.

"Well, that's good. As I've told you before, I'm a fan of your unrelenting bullheadedness."

"Thank you," she said, gritting her teeth. "I can't say I enjoy your inability to answer direct questions, though."

"I don't remember you asking me any of those. Most of the questions you ask are indirect."

"Fine, here's one: what were you and Goyle buying at Borgin & Burkes?" she asked, once more for the road.

He seemed to think about it for a second, chewing his food for once. "All right, that one was pretty direct."

"Well, my point's proven," she said, cursing herself for getting her hopes up.

"Yes, I suppose you were right."

"I don't want to be right. I want you to answer." She poked her chicken again, which was already full of holes at that point.

"You should eat your food," he said, indicating her plate with his fork. "Also, I noticed you got new plates. They're unpleasant."

She couldn't discern a whole lot of emotion on his face; he seemed to look oddly serene most of the time, and she kept wondering if he did it on purpose to be ironic. He did like irony, which she supposed was something they had in common. She took an extremely large bite of her chicken and chewed it before answering. "Well, I like it, and I don't care what you think."

"Yes, you do. You already think your plate is uglier than you did ten minutes ago."

She took another substantial mouthful, ground it up, and swallowed it. He was right, of course – she couldn't even look at the plate anymore. "No, I still like it," she lied.

Having finished the majority of his food, he poked the remaining egg noodles around to form different patterns. "I'm trying to cover up the worst parts of this design, but I don't think it's working."

"I know what you're doing. You want to see if you can make me break another set of plates."

His hand stilled, and he grinned up at her. "You can't blame me for trying."

Her fork came down hard on her last piece of meat, and she jammed it into her mouth uncomfortably and finished the whole thing. "I can blame you for a lot of things."

"And I don't really mind, as long as you know not all of them are my fault."

"Some of them are."

"Yes, that's true, but maybe not the ones you think." He finished the last of his pasta and pushed his plate away. "I like eating breakfast with you better than dinner."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Dinner has finality to it, or something deep and wise like that. Pretend I said something meaningful, would you, Granger?"

_Lie for you again, why not?_

"It doesn't matter, either way. Sure." She managed to cram the rest of her noodles into her mouth and get them down her throat. She stood up and started piling the dishes in the sink, to further the illusion of normality. She began to scrub the pan she'd used to grill the chicken, leaving his comments alone until the silence took the edge off them. "Usually, when one person cooks, it's the other person's job to do the dishes."

"I thought I was a guest."

"We've established that you aren't."

"Well, I don't know how to do dishes your way. Why don't you just use magic like a normal person?"

"Using your hands every so often is good for you, and it's not that hard. Come over here, and I'll show you." She continued scrubbing as she heard him push his chair away and move to join her at the sink. She handed him a plate and the sponge, and he took them reluctantly and looked at her with disdain. "The sponge already has soap on it. Just rub it over the plate until it's clean, and then rinse it in the hot water."

"This is gross," he said, pulling a face. He held the sponge between his thumb and forefinger like it was a dead bug, and she couldn't help but be offended.

"Do it anyway. I don't have any house-elves."

He began to poke the plate ineffectually with the sponge. Then, he stopped and shrugged at her. "See? I can't do it. I wasn't cut out for dish-washing, and neither were you."

"Everyone can wash dishes, Malfoy," she said sharply. "It's _easy_."

"No, I think other people should have to do this sort of thing."

"And I think you should try harder."

She turned on the hand spray and vigorously began to rinse a pot. He hadn't moved yet, so she turned to look at him accusingly. He dropped the plate on purpose, and it shattered at their feet. It didn't sound as nice when someone else was breaking things. She looked down at it in shock for a second, then back up at him, and he shrugged again as the heat shot up her spine.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she asked, practically growling. Anger was becoming comfortable for her; it had largely replaced fear in her spectrum of emotions, which felt wrong. Then again, she couldn't decide which was worse – at least anger tended to get things done.

"Plates are boring, and washing them is even worse," he said. "I'm trying to get all the boring things out of your life, and you don't even appreciate it!"

"Plates are normal, and washing is clean! Why can't you appreciate those things?" She banged the pot against the sides of the sink to emphasise her point, and it sloshed water onto the countertop and over her arm.

He leaned in close, and she realised the hand spray was still on, so she sprayed him in the face.

"Fuck, that's hot!"

He fell back against the counter in shock, throwing his hands up in random directions. She moved the spray down to his chest, soaking his clothing, and then he lunged forward and wrenched it out of her hand. Before she could take a step back, he grabbed the back of her neck like a kitten and hosed down her hair. She screamed and tried to get her nails into his skin, but he smacked her hands away.

The water filtered through her hair and ran down her face in warm streaks, in her eyes and nose and mouth and ears. She couldn't see or hear, and she could barely breathe. With his hand on the top of her spine, she felt like she was floating up to break the surface of a dark lake. Her hair was the seaweed, obviously, so this metaphor made quite a bit of sense – she congratulated herself for a second before resuming the fight, flailing her hands wildly in his general direction.

The water was streaming down her clothes and pooling around her feet on the floor. She lifted her hands and tried to push it out of her face, and then she tried to push against him. She could hear him laughing over her shrieks, and she finally managed to duck under his arms and turn the faucet off. He looked down at the sprayer in confusion, and she pushed him back against the counter, crunching over the glass pile, and held him by the shoulders.

"You do not have the right to break my dishes," she said, breathing heavily. She took one hand off him to throw a soggy curl out of her face. Her mascara was running painfully into her eyes now that they were open again, but she fought to maintain eye contact.

"You don't have the right to scald me," he said, shaking his hands indignantly, like a cat who'd stepped in a puddle. He spat some water into her sink and wiped at his nose with the back of his wrist.

"I didn't scald you. It wasn't that hot. You're going to replace that dish, and I am certainly not going to break the rest this time." Her hair was sticking to her neck uncomfortably, no matter how many times she tried to bat it away, and her shoes squelched whenever she shifted her weight.

He looked down at the broken dish in amusement, his hair dripping onto the floor. "Aren't you the one who has a wand?"

Oh, right. Well, she would have thought of that eventually. Hermione pulled her wand out of her pocket and used it to repair the dish, and then she dried both of them off. Malfoy immediately began to fix his clothing, brushing it off with an air of superiority, as though he were above this. Hermione wasn't buying it for a second: he lived for physical altercations. She was too tired to do any more hand washing, so she used magic to clean the rest of the dishes in the sink.

"See how much better that is? Why didn't you do that to begin with?" he asked, gesturing to the dishes with one hand as he fixed his hair with the other.

"I told you, you need to use your hands sometimes. I think it's lazy to use magic to wash dishes."

"Well, it's pointless to rub that thing on them with the soap. I doubt that would even get anything clean."

He leaned back against the counter and inspected his nails. She caught her breath in the long silence, and it was oddly disappointing the way things had calmed down. She studied the area around her sink, and it no longer bore any signs of a struggle, which was too bad. It was more exciting a minute ago. Maybe it was pointless to wash dishes at all, if they were just going to get dirty again, and they'd all break eventually. Furthermore, it was pointless to end a fight if there wasn't a clear winner.

She picked up one of the clean plates from her drying rack and turned it over in her hands, noting the way the water droplets curved over the smooth surface. It was logical and right, gravity in action, molecular structure and particle motion. She spread out both hands and let it hit the ground, sending porcelain pieces out in waves. She smiled down at the wreckage: it was a much better reflection of the situation in her flat. There was no more denying it: she liked plates better when they were broken.

"You are so weird, Granger," Malfoy said. She smiled at him, and she couldn't tell whether he was impressed or disgusted. "I don't think I'll ever figure you out. Well, probably someday, but that means we've still got plenty of time."

She kicked some of the glass shards playfully, and he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her against the sink. She looked up at him expectantly, and he grabbed another plate from behind her and tossed it over his shoulder. It hit the ground with a happy crash.

"It's a good thing I'm here to help you break your dishes," he said, and then he kissed her.

Together, they crunched through the path of water and glass and backed up through the door and down the hall. He was going forward, and she was going backward. He was taking off her clothes before they even reached her bedroom, and she tore at his from the bed in retaliation. The sun had gone down, and in the darkness she felt things and stopped thinking.

When they were lying side by side an hour later, she noticed it was raining. Malfoy was already asleep, but she stayed awake a few more minutes to watch the drops roll down the window in parallel lines. She imagined herself breaking that window and jumping out and flying, but her eyes were too heavy.

Hermione was in a grey room, and she thought it was a rather nice change from the white one. It wasn't so sterile, and the doors were black with silver knobs. Redecorating didn't change the game, though, so she opened a black door and braced herself.

There was no one. The walls were darker, and there were more doors, and she opened one again. Nothing. She kept pulling knobs and throwing open doors until it was so dark she couldn't see anymore. It was getting warmer, too, like she was moving toward the hot, beating centre of some great and powerful beast. The doorknobs were burning her hands, but still she felt frantically along the walls and turned the handles and rushed forward until she found the one with tongues of flame curling beneath it. Her knees gave out, and the hallway grew longer and longer as she crawled forward on her elbows to the inferno, until she could just about touch it and -

There was a noise so loud it blew out her eardrums. She woke up, for real this time, and sat up in bed and stared at the closet door.

Dreams didn't break glass, and neither did real babies, and neither had either of them. There was only one thing that broke that kind of glass. She wrenched herself away from Malfoy's arms and stumbled out of bed, clutching the sheet and her wand. She still couldn't hear, so she didn't know he was following her until he squeezed her shoulder in front of the black closet door and turned her around to face him.

His lips were moving, but he could have been saying absolutely anything. He appeared to be repeating the same words again and again, pausing when she didn't respond, and the static slowly cleared in her brain.

"What's wrong with you? Can't you hear? Don't open that door!"

She tilted her head, trying to figure out what he meant. Everything was a door. She turned away and pulled open the one that led to her closet. There was nothing on the floor, and she had to open another door before she'd see it.

"Don't look at it, Granger! I mean it!"

She lifted her wand, and he squeezed her shoulder hard.

"Don't look at it!"

She brushed off his hand impatiently and unsealed the floorboards.

"Stop!"

Out of her peripheral vision she could see his hand moving up like he was going to grab her again, but she lifted the boards into the air before he could do it, and they both froze. The boards hovered above the grave-shaped hole in the ground as time as she knew it slowed to a halt, and she didn't think it was ever going to start again. Unfortunately, it did.

There was their baby, lying on the floor in a pool of broken jar shards. She could just barely see it in the moonlight from the window, and she thought they were looking at each other for a second - Hermione Granger and the miniature, mostly-fresh Malfoy corpse - but then she remembered it didn't have eyes.

It didn't have _eyes_, that lucky little bastard. Well, she wasn't sure how this got in here, but it had to go. The static was rising in her ears again, and amid the fog of noise it almost sounded like there was another person in her bedroom, but that didn't make sense. The hand came down on her again, and she looked at it.

"We have to kill it," she explained, to no one in particular.

"It's already dead." She moved her eyes up the arm until she remembered whose it was.

"They didn't do a very good job the first time, then. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself," she said. He was silent for a long time, his grip slowly tightening on her shoulder as he stared at the kid with shocked revulsion.

"What is _wrong_ with us?" he asked at last. "This is the worst thing anyone's ever made, and we made it! You were right the whole time, Granger. We're crazy! We are absolute lunatics!" He paused to shake her for emphasis, and her legs weren't feeling overly strong just then, so she wobbled back and forth rather fluidly.

"Isn't this a fine time for a moment of clarity?" she asked bitterly. She was looking at the living Malfoy, but she could still feel the other one. "Why couldn't we have done the responsible thing and checked ourselves into St. Mungo's before we starting pulling teeth?"

"That's why I told you not to look. The only way this could ever have worked out would be if we never looked at it, especially me. I mean, it's _my corpse_! This is what my body will look like when it's dead, Granger! Well, if I were shrunk by a shaman or something, I guess. Also, it was only one tooth," he pointed out, absurdly.

"I'm going to kill it," she reiterated. She did regret looking, but at least it was dark. That meant that the image would either be less clear or less accurate in the nightmares that were sure to follow this incident.

"Before it kills us."

"It can't kill us," she argued. "It's already dead."

"That's what I was trying to tell you!"

"Well, then I guess we agree!"

"Yes, all three of us!" He finally took his hand off her shoulder, seemingly because he needed both hands to create a strong enough gesture for how he was feeling in that moment. She remembered now that he was naked.

"So, we're going to kill it," she repeated once more, uncertainly. Her mouth had been open so long that her teeth were starting to dry out, and now she had to concentrate on keeping her eyes awkwardly off his skin. They were drying out, too; she kept forgetting to blink.

"No, that's not what we agreed on, but also yes, and fucking do it already!" He paused, his eyes bulging as he viewed his remains. "Fuck!" he repeated, for good measure.

She turned and aimed her wand at the uninvited thing and settled on a spell for a powerful cleansing fire, and soon it was engulfed in a cloud of cold blue flames. They took over her whole closet but only burned the corpse, and the worst smell that Hermione had ever known filled the room. They watched it until it burned down into nothing. When the spots on her vision faded, she cast _Reparo_ on the remaining glass shards, and they reassembled into a perfect jar. Of all the things that didn't make sense, fixing her jar topped the list, but it was the right thing to do. That was also why it felt so out of place,: if someone only did one right thing per day, it was bound to stand out.

She exhaled, and there was a silence so long that she'd grown certain she would never hear a noise again.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Malfoy asked, startling her.

"What were you going to do before?"

"I don't know."

"Then you're no worse off."

"I'm a lot worse off, Granger," he said. "There's less of me."

_There's less of me, too, but I'm not complaining. It's easier to walk around this way._

"I'm sorry," she said. It seemed appropriate, but she didn't really know what it was for.

"No, tell me what I'm supposed to do."

"Why don't you figure it out for yourself? I don't even know what I'm supposed to do, and that's a bigger priority for me."

"Do you want me to stay here or not?" he asked.

"I don't know," she admitted. She looked at him in the meagre light, and his face wasn't serene for once. He was conflicted and maybe even angry, and it upset her more than she might've thought, but she didn't know what else to say. He glanced at the jar and then back at her.

"I don't think that's good enough, at this point," he said, like he was scolding her. "I'm going to count that one."

"As what?"

"Get out." Now he was definitely angry, and the situation was slipping out of control. The only thing she could hang onto was her sheet, transparent and useless, but she couldn't very well hang onto him. Not with her hands, anyway.

"I didn't tell you to get out," she said desperately. "I said I didn't know."

"Well, maybe you'll figure it out, now that you've reached the magic number."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he stepped forward and kissed her out of nowhere, just when she thought she couldn't get any more confused. She tried to trap him in her arms, but then he let go. She stood as still as possible, like a statue of a goddess in some ancient temple with the sheet draped across her breasts. Time was speeding up to make up for that moment when it had frozen, and she was determined to slow it back down again. If she didn't even breathe, maybe this moment could last just a few extra seconds. Sixty-one would be fine. She wasn't asking for much.

He gathered his clothing off the ground and put it on and walked through the bedroom and the hallway and the living room. She followed him a few paces back. He stopped in front of the door and touched the knob without issue, since Hermione had foolishly allowed him to touch everything. He lingered there, and she clutched the sheet tighter around her body.

"You told me to leave, and I have to do what you say," he said, before an expectant pause. "And you can say it whenever you're ready, as long as it's soon," he concluded, still without turning around.

Her fists were clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't form the words. She was the one thinking in dead languages now. Meaningless syllables flowed through her brain, backwards words and strings of consonants without vowels, runes and numbers and exclamation points.

Her thoughts were louder and louder, but he couldn't hear them, and he opened the door and walked out and closed it behind him. She waited about five minutes in silence, staring at this other door. Like a pot of water, it took about that long for Hermione to reach a full, rolling boil.

"Say what?" she screamed, to her empty flat. "_What do you want me to say?_"

She'd run out of words, but she hadn't run out of screams, so she kept going until her vision darkened and she had to stop and breathe. She fell sideways onto her couch, and it smelled like Malfoy. Until then, she hadn't even realised that she knew anything about his personal odours. He smelled like a delusional psycho with a contagious case of anarchy fever, mixed with her shampoo. Hermione could buy separate shampoo for freeloading roommates all day, it seemed, and they would still continue to use hers.

She'd rarely been alone in the past month, and she wasn't used to it anymore, and everything had happened so fast. More importantly - or maybe it didn't matter at all, one of the two - what was Malfoy going to say when they asked where he'd been? Would he lie for her? _Could_ he lie? What if they gave him Veritaserum? Did Hermione even care if anybody knew anymore?

Yes, she did, but only her other two remaining friends. All the strangers in the world could think whatever they wanted. She was dimly aware that she wouldn't feel that way in the morning, when she was better at thinking again, but it wouldn't compute now. She didn't know what time it was, but she was more worried about what would happen if she stayed alone in her flat for another minute. It seemed likely that she'd disappear completely.

She'd just wink out of existence, and everyone would say, 'Where is Hermione? She never finished that research, and I need more advice to ignore!'

Well, not quite. Some people would say that, and others would say: 'Where is Miss Granger? She said she'd decide the watching-paint-dry case by Monday, and we haven't even looked at the listening-to-grass-grow files yet!'

Or: 'Where's that bird from The Golden Trio? She said she'd speak at our grand opening, and it'll be bad for business if she doesn't show up.'

With two: 'Where's our sister?'

And just one: 'Where's Granger? She hasn't said it yet.'

Good questions, all around. Where was Hermione, indeed. Well, she was about to be in Harry and Ginny's living room, most likely waking the baby.


	13. Perfidy

**Chapter 13: Perfidy**

She'd gotten all the way to the Floo before she remembered she was still wearing a bed sheet, and it seemed like a bad idea to show up at the Potter residence in the middle of the night if she wasn't at least wearing clothes. It was probably still a bad idea, but she had to go somewhere.

As she unwrapped the sweaty sheet and stumbled into a t-shirt and jeans, Hermione wondered if this was what it felt like to be broken up with. She'd never been on this side of the equation: she'd rejected the possibility of a relationship with Viktor, kicked Ron out, and stopped returning Nigel's owls. She'd turned down other men for a date preemptively, due to reasonable conclusions that a relationship with them would go nowhere. She'd known from the start that she didn't want to go wherever Malfoy was going to take her, but she'd been forced to take the ride anyway because they were trapped in her flat together. Now that she was there, it wasn't half-bad, but he still wasn't her boyfriend. She had been sleeping with him, and Hermione had never thought she'd sleep with someone outside of a committed relationship - it seemed too risky.

Once she was dressed, she glanced at the clock on the way back to the Floo: 5:31 A.M. She remembered the modified Polyjuice potion she'd been stirring every night and made a mental note to pour it out later: there was no more Malfoy Manor heist happening, and Halloween wasn't for another few months.

She threw the powder into her fireplace and stepped through into the Potters' dark living room, feeling like a refugee. It was tidy in a lived-in sort of way, with toys piled in pens and books scattered on the coffee table and mismatched pillows strewn over the sofa. The floor was mostly clear, and everything had been warm and peaceful until she got there - Hermione Granger, the roving ball of chaos, spitting insanity and disorder wherever she went.

She savoured the softness as she walked through the room, touching the upholstery and the smooth plastic, but it wasn't enough to calm her down. She thought about turning on a light, and then she thought about staying on the couch until morning, but neither of those seemed likely to make her any less crazy. As she walked up the stairs, she realised that it had been a long time since she'd been in this house, and she couldn't remember which was the master bedroom. She cast a silencing charm on her feet and carefully opened one of the doors, crossing her fingers.

Wrong one. She heard the baby breathing, and she couldn't resist edging up to the side of his crib in the glow of his magical nightlight. He'd gotten big since she'd seen him last, looking more human every day. She moved her fingers on the wooden bars, watching his eyes dart around beneath the lids and thinking about how fine his hair must feel. For the first time since sometime in the past, she felt normal. This was a right thing that a person could do.

"Hermione?" She turned around and saw Ginny, who was looking well beyond worried. "I saw you on the monitor. What's wrong?"

She was pretty sure Harry and Ginny had been talking in their bedroom the whole time she'd been there, and she was glad they'd chosen to send the woman. Words failed, and she shook her head as her chest began to constrict. Her shoulders shook, her throat closed, and she bit her lip as hard as she could. Ginny padded across the room and touched her hand, which had moved up to wrap around her neck. Hermione used to cry a lot when she was younger, but she hadn't in a while. She'd hardened herself for many good reasons, and it always seemed like a fine idea until all the backed-up emotions exploded.

She was tugged forward and down, and when she wiped her burning eyes they were in the living room, where she was being pushed onto the sofa. Ginny turned the light on, and her eyes burned even worse, and more acid tears came streaming out of them onto her hands. Her nose was running, and she was making those same embarrassing high-pitched noises that young men dressed as miserable old women make in sketch comedy shows. She couldn't believe that there had ever been a time when she was willing to cry in public, but she could certainly remember why she'd stopped.

Ginny pressed some tissues into her hand, and she used one to wipe the mess off her face. She looked at Ginny, and then she was being hugged. With the softness all around her like that, she felt like she could be soft, too. She kept crying for a long time, with Ginny rocking her and rubbing her back. Her chest felt lighter once the wailing was out.

"Can you tell me what's wrong now?" Ginny was using her most soothing mother-voice, and Hermione nodded against her shoulder. She'd need words that didn't exist to explain her problems completely, but she'd do her best.

"He left," she said, starting at the end, which made no sense.

"Who left?"

"Malfoy," she said, courage flooding through her. "He's gone." The courage faded as quickly as it came, and the tears started leaking again.

"He's been gone a long time," Ginny said, sounding confused. "Are you upset because you haven't found him yet? Hermione, the whole Auror Department was stumped. Nobody's going to think any less of you if you don't solve it all by yourself."

"No, you don't understand!" Her voice was squeaky, and she paused to get it under control while pressing another tissue hard into her eyes. "He's been with me the whole time. In my _bed._"

Ginny made a soothing noise as a fresh wave of sobs came on, still moving her warm hand over Hermione's back. "I think I do understand," she said. "I know what that feels like. All those nights when Harry was gone, I woke up every morning feeling like You-Know-Who was breathing on my neck."

Well, that wasn't helpful. Her situation was so ridiculous that her best friend thought she was speaking metaphorically.

"No," she said. "I mean it. He was there until tonight, and now he's gone. I don't know where he went."

Ginny just kept clutching her and making the same noises she probably made to James, and Hermione gave up. She knew it was cowardly, but she didn't care. It felt so nice to be held and cared for that she was willing to put off the truth for another day.

"I think you should call your boss tomorrow and tell him you can't do this assignment, all right?" She nodded obediently. "And I think you need to take some time off." She nodded again. "And you're staying here, at least for a few days."

"No, I can't do that," she said, when her voice returned. "You have to take care of the baby."

"You're family, too. I can take care of both of you." The mother goddess lifted her chin and smiled, and Hermione gave an uncertain smile in return. "But we can talk about it in the morning. I found a mild sleeping draught in the kitchen."

Hermione was handed a vial and drank it without question. She knew it was her imagination, but the draught seemed to take effect before it was even down her throat, and she barely made it to the guest bed. As she sunk into the white sheets, she had just enough time to notice how odd it was to sleep alone.

* * *

When she woke up, the sun was all over her and the bed was warm but strange. She moved her hands over the gratuitous space on both sides before looking at the clock: 4:43 P.M.

She was nine hours and forty-three minutes late for work, and she didn't even feel rested. Her muscles felt overtaxed, especially her arms, like she'd personally carried Malfoy out of her flat. She either hadn't dreamed or didn't remember it, which was disappointing: she never got to reach the centre. She was still wearing the clothes she'd thrown on the previous night.

The giant bed was starting to swallow her all alone, so she threw her legs over the side. She took each step like she meant it, heel to toe, until she found Ginny and James on the living room floor, playing with blocks. She lingered in the doorway until Ginny looked up.

"Hermione, how do you feel now that you've slept?" she asked, rushing forward. The baby reached after his mother for a second, but he quickly returned to his game.

"Better," she lied. "I didn't call into work, though. They don't know where I am."

"Harry and I decided not to wake you up this morning, but he said he'd talk to your boss. He said he'd tell him you were so feeling so sick you had to come and stay with us." Ginny touched Hermione's hair and slid her hand down to squeeze her shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here. You have no idea how worried we've been."

"I'm not sick, though. That's a lie. I've just gotten in over my head." She closed her eyes as she felt more tears welling up, but she could control them now in the light. She could hold herself back.

"Sickness doesn't have to just be physical," Ginny said. "You're sick of your job. You're sick of pushing yourself too hard. You're sick of being something you don't want to be, and now you need time to get better."

She opened her eyes and blinked rapidly. "How did you know all that?"

"I know you really well," Ginny said. "At first I thought you didn't trust me enough to tell me those things, but then I realised you probably didn't even want to think them to yourself. We've lived together before, and I've seen you in action for eleven years. There was a time when we all needed you so badly that we couldn't give you a break, no matter how much you deserved one. Now we still need you around, but only because we love you. We can take care of ourselves. Harry says he walks past your office every day to see you pulling your hair out at your desk, and you shouldn't have to do that. You can say it to me: 'I hate my job.'"

"I hate my job," she repeated. "I never would have started if I knew it'd be like this. But that's not even the problem. That's not why I'm sick."

"Why, then?"

She gestured vaguely at nothing with one arm. "Malfoy," she said.

"I thought you said you were going to give up that assignment," Ginny said, cocking her head in confusion.

"He's not just an assignment," she whispered. "He's a person, and I want him back." She might have just been used to the comfort of having him, except that having him had generally been anything but comfortable.

Ginny hugged her, probably because she didn't know how else to respond. "Hermione," she said into her hair after a moment. "I wish Draco Malfoy could appreciate how lucky he was to have somebody like you spend two weeks looking for him. It's the most love he'll ever get."

She shook her head vigorously. "I don't love him."

"No, I meant you're a loving person, and you aimed your love in his direction when you gave him some of your time," Ginny said. "It makes me feel bad now, talking about him the way I did, when he might not even be alive. I'm sure they'll solve it soon, and you can get some closure."

"I'll get something, all right," she muttered, pushing Ginny back at arms' length. "But it's nice that somebody still thinks that about me."

"Everyone still thinks that. We always will." Until the truth came out, she amended mentally. Ginny smiled at her and then glanced back at the baby, who was watching them curiously while sucking on a block. Hermione thought about all the germs on the porous wood. "Do you want something to eat? I've got tomato soup on the stove."

"Soup would be nice," she said, and Ginny led her into the kitchen and began to fix a bowl while she sat at the table. She picked up her spoon and lifted the red liquid into her mouth, while Ginny went to fetch James. She brought the baby and blocks into the kitchen and sat beside Hermione, glancing at her family's incarnation of the traditional Weasley clock. The hand marked "Harry" was still pointing to "work."

"Harry should be on his way home by now," she remarked. "I wonder what's going on."

As she ate her soup under Ginny's protective gaze, Hermione started thinking about Ron for the first time in weeks. Maybe it was the family resemblance. "Can I ask you something?" she began, setting down her spoon momentarily, and Ginny nodded. "If you knew how bad I was feeling about work, why didn't you know how bad I felt about your brother?"

"What do you mean? I remember when you broke up," Ginny said. "I remember how torn up you both were."

"Except I wasn't torn up. I was glad it was over. I was angry." She looked down at the smooth surface of her soup and disturbed it with the spoon, watching the ripples move outward.

"I knew you were angry," Ginny said at last. "But I thought…" She trailed off, and Hermione looked up to see her looking almost as worried as she had the previous night.

"I was really angry with him, for a long time," she continued bravely. "He shouldn't have treated me the way he did."

"Oh," Ginny said. "Oh, no. I'm sorry. Harry kept telling me not to bring it up, but Ron said you told him you still loved him, and that you thought you could get back together someday. I thought you just wanted him to get his life on track, and he was doing a lot better."

Hermione had said those things, but she hadn't meant them. Ron had been crying in her kitchen, and it was an incredibly awkward moment, and she'd been saying whatever she could think of to make him stop so he would leave. "No, I knew we wouldn't get back together."

Ginny nodded, eyes on the table. "I'm sorry. Did I upset you more by talking about it?"

"I don't think so," she said, after some thought. "I had a lot of other things to be upset about."

"I know. I promise I'll never bring it up again. I wish I'd known how you felt about it." Ginny looked absolutely miserable, and Hermione felt guilty. It wasn't Ginny's fault she hadn't known: Hermione hadn't told anybody how violently angry she was with Ron - she hadn't wanted to feel that way, and she'd still been operating under the assumption that thoughts would evaporate on their own if nobody ever said them out loud.

"You would have known if I'd have told you. I promise I'll start being more honest with you." Starting with the next honest thing after Malfoy, of course. It wasn't as though she was lying about that, though. She had told nothing but the truth since she'd gotten there, and it was only partially her fault if Ginny didn't understand that Malfoy had _literally_ been in her bed. She could have explained more, but then she'd just start crying again, and her words would get lost in the waves. It seemed that Ginny would have to find out the whole story the same way as everybody else: from the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. She cringed at the thought of her upcoming publicity, but it wasn't as though she hadn't earned it.

"Hi, everyone," Harry said from the doorway, ending the quiet moment. Ginny stood up and kissed him while Hermione watched, feeling jealous again. It would be nice if she had a normal relationship, where kisses didn't have to involve broken glass and blood. "You'll never guess what happened," he said, once his wife had pulled away. "They found Malfoy."

Hermione choked on some air and smacked herself repeatedly in the chest. "Where?"

"At his house. He showed up there this morning, drunk and wearing Muggle clothes," Harry said, shaking his head incredulously. "It was bizarre. I don't know if the Malfoys were even planning to tell the Ministry he was there, but luckily an Auror was scheduled to test the stability of their wards at noon. He came back with Draco Malfoy. Aside from still being sloshed, he was in perfect health, and I had to stay late questioning him."

"Where was he?" Ginny asked, looking round at Hermione with excitement. She must have thought this news would be well-received, but Hermione was waiting for Harry's next words with equal measures horror and confusion.

"That's the weirdest part," Harry continued. "He doesn't remember."

"What?" Hermione demanded, clutching the edge of the table.

"We gave him a sobriety potion and questioned him first of his own volition, and he claimed to think it was still June 8th. We tested him for memory modifications, but none showed up, so we thought he was lying and gave him Veritaserum. No matter what we asked, he just kept saying, 'human memory is faulty.' It was really obnoxious, but he can't have been lying - we ended up giving him twice the recommended dose of truth serum. He honestly doesn't have a clue where he was this whole time."

"That's so weird!" Ginny said. "How is that possible, if his memory wasn't altered?"

"I don't know," he grumbled. "That's why we had to spend five hours questioning him. It doesn't make any sense."

"And you never got a straight answer?" his wife asked.

"No, but we got plenty of completely bonkers answers. Malfoy's out of his mind - he kept answering questions with other questions and telling irrelevant historical anecdotes. I think he might have quoted Shakespeare a few times, and he answered one question in Latin. Nobody speaks bloody Latin, so we had to bring in a translator, and all he said was, 'I think I was warm.' But of course, it's _summer_, so he would have been warm out in a cornfield." Harry shook his head again, looking put-upon.

Conversely, Hermione felt her lips spread out into a grin. She wished she could have heard the questioning, since it sounded hilarious: clearly no one had been present who could appreciate Malfoy's sense of humour,. Once she'd fully processed the information, she was hit by such an intense wave of relief that she was glad to be seated. Ginny saw her expression and smiled brightly.

"This must be a load off your mind," she said.

"You have no idea," Hermione managed, still grinning. She even giggled a bit - she was getting away with it. Apparently, Malfoy really did believe that everything he said was true, even under the influence of a double dose of Veritaserum. She almost felt bad for accusing him of lying so many times; however, to be fair, what he did bore such a striking resemblance to lying that only a trained professional could make a distinction. Now she understood him better, and it felt special because obviously no one else did. She didn't have him anymore, though, and her smile slowly faded.

Ginny took James and left the room, probably on cue, and Harry took a seat at the table. "How are you feeling?" he asked, fidgeting in his seat like a nervous schoolboy. She swallowed a few more spoonfuls of soup before answering.

"Finding Malfoy solves a major portion of my problems," she said. It was true: all that remained was her dissatisfaction with her job, a tiny sliver of a grudge for Ron, and a general and nameless malaise. She supposed that if she had to name it, it wouldn't be completely unsuitable to call it "missing a man."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said. "What does that leave?"

"A few things," she said vaguely. "Nothing I can't handle on my own."

Harry studied her expression, probably hoping that a lengthy silence would persuade her to continue, but it didn't work. "You don't have to be on your own, though," he said at last. "Is one of your problems your job?"

"I guess."

"You don't ever have to go back," he told her, in a display of his characteristic defiance. It wasn't something she was used to seeing anymore, and it didn't make her worry like it had back in school. Now it made her smile. "You know that, right? Nobody can force you to do anything. You're Hermione Granger, famous for being the smartest witch in the whole country. You're better than what they've been giving you."

She hadn't thought about that possibility yet, but somehow it didn't come as a surprise. It felt natural, like she'd known it in her subconscious mind all along: she was never going back. "I'm going to quit," she said, lifting her chin to mimic Harry's confident stance.

"Good. Does that solve another problem?"

"Sort of. It changes the problem, anyway. I don't know what I'm supposed to do instead." Her soup was getting cold, and she wasn't hungry anymore, so she pushed the bowl away.

"It's not about what you're supposed to do." His tone was serious and commanding, like a general leading the troops in Hermione's personal war. It wasn't his battle, though. "What do you want to do?"

She stared at him, trying to think of the last time Harry Potter had asked her that question. Never, most likely. She'd thought she wanted to hear it, but she realised that she liked its cousin better: _what should we do? _That one was much easier to answer. "I have no idea," she said.

"Do you want to find out?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, and she nodded. "Then that's the answer. You want to figure out what you want to do."

She almost asked him how to do that, which would have been silly. It was bound to be different for everybody, and the first thing she had to do was learn how to find out for herself.

"Has Malfoy been released?" she asked, changing the subject before her thoughts could get too complicated.

"No, but I don't know what else they can do with him. I think they're only holding him overnight as punishment for giving everybody a headache. When we told Astoria Greengrass she couldn't pick him up tonight, she pitched a fit so shrill that only dogs could hear it. Then Malfoy threw an even worse fit when I told him his fiancée was going to be the one to collect him. What is _wrong_ with these people?" he lamented, throwing up his hands.

"I've been wondering that for a long time." Not just in the past month, either: Hermione had been wondering what was wrong with the wizarding aristocracy since the age of eleven, and the Muggle one before that despite her own parents' wealth. There was something about money that made people do strange things, whether they were chasing it or wallowing in it or trying to escape.

There was a calm silence, and then Harry brought the subject back around. "When are you going to talk to your boss?"

"Tomorrow," she said. "I have to give two weeks notice, though."

"No, I don't think you do," he said, looking amused. "Like I said, you're Hermione Granger, and besides that I'm Harry Potter. You don't have to do a bloody thing you don't want to do."

"That doesn't give me the right to break the rules," she argued, trying not to smile.

"Maybe not, but it gives you the right to change them around and make new ones. Who's going to stop you?"

She stared across the table, and it was like nothing existed in the world except Harry and her. She'd been acting ridiculous, and it had taken her a whole month of other-worldly madness to see reality. She felt her hands on the table and her feet on the floor, connected by a network of ligaments and veins and other long cords, and her brain was back in control. She hadn't known how to get to this point in a straight line like other people seemed to do. The only way she could've done it was by zigzagging through Hell, and at least the end result was about the same.

The only difference was Malfoy. Now that he was gone, he was metaphorically still there, like how Ginny felt about Voldemort. Actually, the best way to describe it would probably be a cross between Ginny's feelings about Voldemort and the ones she had for her husband. That comparison wouldn't have made sense to a lot of people other than Hermione, but she had a feeling Malfoy would've been one of them.

She had never needed him - or maybe she had, but only as a tangent to some greater thing - but now she definitely wanted him. He was at the centre of the beast, but he wasn't part of it anymore, and she wanted to take him out. She realised with pleasure that she'd just answered part of Harry's question, and she could make an amendment to her current situation: she wanted to figure out what she wanted. With Malfoy.

It wasn't heavy on the details, but it gave her a challenge to tackle first: getting him back.

"I'm going to see how Ginny and James are doing," Harry said, interrupting her thoughts. "You can just rest here tonight, if you want, or you can go for a walk or something if you think it would help. Tell us where you're going if you leave, though, just so we don't worry." She nodded, and he stood up and patted her hand on his way out of the kitchen.

She went over her options: she could visit Malfoy in his holding cell, but she still wasn't sure what he wanted her to say. He was probably still mad at her, and now he was back to being engaged. To her horror, it occurred to her quite belatedly that she was the other woman. She couldn't take Malfoy with her, wherever she was going, if he got married.

She'd have to let him resolve that issue. She wasn't going to force his hand. If he wanted her back, he could prove he was capable of taking control of his own life by breaking off the engagement of his own volition. If he didn't, he could do whatever he wanted - or didn't want, as the case may have been.

This left her with time to kill, and the plans came into her head easily: even if it didn't matter, she'd use the time to try and figure out what Goyle and Malfoy were up to. Her first stop was Borgin & Burkes, although she couldn't tell Harry that. She tapped the table decisively and strode into the living room, where the family was watching a children's video on Harry's Muggle television set.

"I think a walk would be nice," she said. "I need to stop at my flat and get some of my things, and then I'm going to Diagon Alley." And right through it to Knockturn Alley, but it was half-true at least.

"That sounds like a good idea," Ginny said, taking a break from trying to smooth her baby's hair. "Let us know when you come home, okay?"

"I will," she said, and Harry waved goodbye. She walked past the television into the Floo, back to her flat.

It was the emptiest flat in the world. The walls were white, the décor was crisp, and it could not possibly have been more dead. The air itself seemed to stand still, turning to stone in her lungs, and it was little wonder she'd stagnated, living there.

She walked through the silent living room into her silent bedroom, which was at least messier, like somebody had once lived there a century or so ago. It almost made her cry again to look at her bed and closet, the locations of the two biggest battles. Actually, there was the Battle of the Kitchen, and it had all started in the living room; the whole flat was a war-zone, and the only strategy either side could come up with was attrition. It was a lazy war and a messy one, with plenty of bloodshed and brazen treaty violations. The UN would bring her up for crimes against humanity if they ever found out, although it was mostly her humanity that had suffered.

She swallowed the disgust and looked through her closet for a suitably dodgy cloak, and she charmed it to give less warmth once she'd found one. She tied back her hair, pulled on the floor-length cloak, and looked in the mirror. She would certainly fit right in with the denizens of Knockturn Alley, and she placed a glamour over the cloak's opening that would cast her almost completely into shadow. She could only see her lips and the tip of her nose once it was done, no matter how she moved. She would go for a walk first, to think about what she'd say to Mr. Borgin, and so she took the Floo to Diagon Alley.


	14. Possession With Intent

**Chapter 14: Possession With Intent**

Baby trees didn't look like much. They were uglier than human babies, but not as ugly as Hermione's baby. The image of that was burned into her brain, just like she knew it would be, but hopefully it would fade over time. It was the most disgusting thing she'd ever seen, and she was a war veteran, so that was saying something.

They were planting a whole row of uncertain little trees in the Muggle park by the entrance to Diagon Alley, but they were too young for her to figure out what kind they were. On the other hand, Hermione didn't really know anything about trees of any age, so that was only an excuse she was making for herself. It didn't actually matter that she couldn't identify baby trees, but any lack of knowledge was uncomfortable for her.

People were staring at her shadowy visage in the worst way, but at least it wasn't the catcalls she would've normally been getting from the tree-planting construction workers. Once the holes were dug, they backed up on their beeping forklifts and spun around and inched forward to the voids and put in the babies. They spread wood chips around the roots and patted them down and backed up the forklifts again, while she stood watching in her dodgy cloak. She was a lady of the night, completely out of place both in Muggle London and in the face of wholesome daytime activities.

She wasn't going to Knockturn Alley anymore, for a whole round of reasons that she'd just come up with. Hannah Abbott had been behind the counter of the Leaky Cauldron when she stepped out of the Floo, and Hermione was about to wave when she remembered her disguise. Her hands snapped back to her sides, and Hannah looked at her suspiciously. She belonged in a seedy alley with used-up Dark Magic artifacts thrown in the rubbish bins, which stood in front of forgotten nooks that may have one day contained Draco Malfoy's fake, eyeless head if things had happened differently.

She thought about those rubbish bins in Knockturn Alley while she was standing in the Floo room at the pub, as people pushed past her without bothering to apologise. The same bins had been there forever-hundreds of years, maybe, without ever being cleaned. Probably no one ever even looked in them, and she wondered what was at the bottom of each one. After a few centuries, a real severed head wouldn't look that different from an ancient roast turkey until she got right up close.

She was thinking about very old trash, and Hannah Abbott wouldn't stop looking at her, and then she was thinking about Goyle. Something happened in her brain, and she went the opposite direction from the way she'd planned to go. Instead of heading to a place where she fit right in, like Knockturn Alley, she wanted to go even farther into a world that wasn't hers. She wanted to stand out as much as possible while she figured out if there was anywhere that had an opening for somebody like her.

She needed time to think about what she'd say at Borgin & Burke's anyway, as she had reasoned at the time, but the more she thought about it, the less she cared. She cared more about trees being planted in Muggle parks, since at least those were alive.

The out-of-place feeling was oddly comforting when she started walking, with that serene balance between people staring and people trying not to look. Children always looked, and that was one of Hermione's favorite things about them. She smiled at those kids under her cloak, which made them look away, because smiling dark figures were actually creepier than angry-looking ones. Hermione knew that from experience.

There was a possibility that Malfoy's return would lead Goyle to believe that their plan was back in motion, whatever it was, but she was starting to think he wouldn't do it anyway. She knew Malfoy well enough to make attempts at predicting his behavior, which was a skill that few could master, and she was pretty sure he'd be awaiting her next move before he did anything rash. If she was wrong about that, then she was wrong about everything, and it wouldn't matter what Goyle's scheme was.

It had also occurred to her that the threads of his future weren't hers to untangle, as he might have put it, and it didn't bother her anymore that she was thinking like him. She kept wondering if they'd always thought alike or if it was a recent development. It led her to imagine what she would have done in the War if she'd been in his place, since everything came back to the War somehow. It was the central point within each of them and between them all, equidistant from each outer point. It gave everything a certain natural harmony, like a spider web: if something shook Hermione and Malfoy, the two pulses made their way down the silk strands through time and space to meet in the middle.

If she were him, would she have gone crazy? Yes, definitely. Check that one off the list. Over and out.

Sided with the Order? She wasn't so sure anymore. It was easy for people to tell themselves that they would've done the right thing in a certain situation, mostly because they weren't in it. If someone were hearing the whole sordid tale of Hermione and Malfoy's flat, for example, they'd probably be all smug about it. 'I would have turned him in,' they'd say. Or, 'I wouldn't have made a corpse.' Anybody could just _say _that they would never cut off somebody's toe on a couch and use the bone and nail for Dark Magic, but in practice it was much harder to avoid.

Now that she was through this, she had to move forward, and Borgin & Burke's was in the past. There had to be something better she could do with her free time while she waited to see what would happen. If she ended up getting Malfoy back, she might cash in her life debt and make him tell her his secrets, just for her own curiosity. If she never got him back, then it would never matter. It was getting dark outside, and the sky looked like it wanted to rain, so she circled back around the park. The construction men were gone, and the whole row of trees was planted, and she went back to Diagon Alley.

She took the Floo to her flat, where she dropped off her cloak and found some pyjamas and a change of clothes before leaving again for the Potters' house. Ginny and James were gone, while Harry sat alone in front of the telly. He invited her to join him, and she turned around to look at the screen.

He was watching Ab Fab reruns, but she wasn't really in a position to make fun of him for it. It was the episode where Patsy and Eddy went to the hospital, and they were just getting out of the ambulance as Hermione sat down on the couch.

"I never really watched this show," Harry said, "but I've seen this episode three times." She studied him in her peripheral vision, and he looked tired but happy. He was a man enjoying his chance to relax after an honest day's work, just like the ones on television.

"It always seems to happen that way," she said. "You hardly ever watch a show, but it's always the same one when you do."

"And it's always the worst episode," he complained.

She heard him sigh and adjust his posture, and she reckoned they were done talking for a while. She'd forgotten what it was like to be this comfortable with a person, and it was nice to have it back. It was also boring, if she had to admit it. At times like these, she missed that thorn in her side.

"Still mad at Ron, then?" he asked after few minutes, completely out of nowhere. She glanced at him sideways, but he was looking straight ahead.

"A bit. Not as much as before." Harry nodded, but he didn't say anything more about it, and she figured he'd heard about the situation from Ginny. Every time she pictured Ron's face, she still wanted to sink her fist into it, but the thoughts didn't come as often. It didn't make her blood catch fire like it had before, and it was liberating to say out loud that she was angry with him. She had every right to be.

She'd also seen that Ab Fab rerun a few times, but she stayed and watched it with Harry all the way until the end before going to bed. As they were walking up the stairs, she told him that this would be the last night she'd stay there, and he reluctantly agreed. She'd have to Floo her boss in the morning to resign, which was too scary to think about, and so she didn't. When she lay down again in the guest bedroom, she came to an unpleasant but intriguing realization: she didn't belong anywhere. Not in Muggle London, not in her messed-up flat, not in Harry Potter's guest bedroom, not in Knockturn Alley, and certainly not in the Ministry. It didn't matter what she wore or who she pretended to be. She wouldn't be able to ignore that ill-fitting piece of herself anymore.

She had been doing a lot of thinking since Malfoy left, which was probably a good sign. Maybe she was trying to make up for all the thinking she _didn't_ do while he was around. As she stared up at Harry's white ceiling, she decided that it was better not to fight the things she couldn't change. If she didn't belong anywhere, then she wouldn't stay anywhere for long enough to notice it. She'd go everywhere and be a stranger until she didn't feel so strange anymore. It was raining again as she fell asleep, and she was glad to see the weather making an effort to be consistent.

* * *

The next day, Hermione woke up feeling refreshed-invigorated, even, until she remembered that this was the day she was supposed to quit her job. She didn't want to ruin her good mood, so she decided to put it off some more while they still thought she was sick. She sat up in bed and stretched, smiling at the wall, and then she took her time getting ready. An hour later, she walked downstairs and found Ginny in the kitchen, sitting beside James in his high chair.

"How are you doing today?" asked Ginny, taking a break from feeding the baby. Ginny still looked as worried as she had the previous two nights, and Hermione thought about how insane she'd been acting the whole time. She showed up in the middle of the night, creeped around in the baby's room, and then rambled about Malfoy-a person Ginny thought she hadn't seen in years-while crying hysterically. It struck her a bit funny, which probably wasn't a normal reaction, but she didn't really care.

"I'm feeling much better," she said. "I think I was really exhausted."

Ginny nodded, readily accepting the excuse. Lack of sleep could do funny things to a person's mind, and so could Draco Malfoy; Hermione's sanity hadn't stood a chance against the one-two punch. It felt like Malfoy was still confusing her at long-range, but at least she was well-rested and back on a normal schedule. She poured herself a mug of coffee and brought it to the table.

Ginny gave her a moment to get settled, but she couldn't be patient for too long. "So, have you thought about what you're going to do once you've quit?"

"I might travel first," she said, making it up on the spot. She didn't really have any clue, but this sounded plausible. "Then I might go back to school," she added.

"For what?" Ginny asked.

"I'm not sure yet. I think I'll figure it out while I'm gone." It actually sounded appealing now that she said it, but so would anything else that didn't involve lawn flamingos. She wasn't sure she wanted a change that big, though. She still loved the law: she loved knowing all the rules and enforcing them, and she'd never get sick of order and control. The Ministry just wasn't the right place to use her degree.

"That's great. You know, I was thinking I'd like to go back to school, too," Ginny said, glancing at her son. "Once James is big enough. I know it'll be a while, but I've already waited this long. I still want to be a Healer."

"You should," she said. "I think you'd be great for that." Everyone had their own talent. Ginny was good at helping people, Harry was good at handling dangerous situations, Ron was good at messing things up and being an idiot, and Malfoy was good at being crazy. Hermione, for her part, was good at everything except being happy.

She looked at James in his chair, plaintively refusing the food Ginny was trying to jam into his mouth, and she tried to imagine what his talent would be.

Since Ginny was busy, Hermione fixed herself breakfast and ate it in front of the telly. Ginny brought James into the living room, and Hermione alternated between watching the baby and watching daytime television, and she couldn't decide which one was more boring.

They all ate lunch together at noon, just like a normal family might, and Hermione decided she'd wait until Harry got home before leaving. She went back to the telly and the baby until Harry stepped out of the Floo at four o'clock.

Ginny went up to kiss her husband, and he kissed the baby, too. Hermione smiled at him from the couch, and he smiled back, but there was something weird about his expression.

"How was work?" Ginny asked.

"Boring, just how I like it. Malfoy came in to pick up his new wand, since he somehow lost the old one on his mysterious journey." Harry sighed, and Hermione felt a pang of guilt. "I'm starving, though. I didn't eat much at lunch."

"That's good, because I've got a nice meal planned for tonight," Ginny said. "Hermione's leaving after, if I'm not mistaken, and I can't have her thinking she's the only one who can cook." She picked up her son and winked at Hermione before heading toward the kitchen.

As soon as she was gone, Harry moved to the couch, clearly on a mission. "I didn't want to say this in front of Ginny, but there's something you should know," he said, lowering his voice. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, and she knew exactly what he was going to talk about. "I don't know why, and I don't know what this means, but Malfoy was asking about you."

She widened her eyes, approximating innocent surprise. "What? Why would he want to know anything about me?" she asked. She could be angry with Malfoy for failing to keep his mouth shut, or she could be happy that he was thinking about her, but not both. Well, maybe she could do both if she tried extra hard.

"I don't know, it was weird. We'd just finished the paperwork for getting his wand. I thought he'd want to get away from me as much as I wanted to get rid of him, but he kept talking."

"About me?"

"Yeah. He said he heard you'd been working on his case, and he asked what your job was in the Ministry. I told him that was none of his business, and he gave me this creepy smile. It was almost frightening. Honestly, it's hard to explain, but you'd understand what I mean if you had to talk to him." He gestured randomly with both hands, presumably trying to demonstrate how it felt to talk to Malfoy. She gave him a confused look, even though really she knew exactly what he meant.

"Is that all he said?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"Mostly, but the whole situation was setting off alarms in my head. He just kept grinning, and he said I'd find out eventually." Harry was looking very bothered and squaring his shoulders, and Hermione knew the hero gears were turning in his brain again. She tried to look appropriately worried by the information he was giving her, but she was getting sick of fabricating facial expressions. What she really wanted to do was yell at Malfoy for a few hours, and then shag. He must have known how stupid it would be to talk about her to Harry Potter, of all people. "He's really unstable," Harry continued. "I think we should check the wards in your flat before you leave."

He gave her a pointed look, and she thought about the situation, which was now worse than yesterday. Harry seemed to think Malfoy was stalking her or planning to murder her or something, for no discernible reason, and it was all Malfoy's fault. Well, it was also Harry's fault for overreacting, but Malfoy was the one who just had to throw out a barb. She understood the urge to gloat, but couldn't he have done it silently? He could have smirked at Harry the whole time they were doing the paperwork. Harry would have asked why he was smiling, and he could've just shrugged and grinned even more, and that would have been sufficiently annoying to Harry. It was times like these when Hermione remembered the most crucial difference between Malfoy and herself: she was smarter.

Meanwhile, Harry had been convinced that Malfoy was an evil psycho since the age of eleven, despite a consistent overabundance of evidence to the contrary. Now he was even more certain about it, and that was the last thing she wanted: if she was going to get Malfoy back, she would have to eventually tell Harry, and any renewed hatred would make it even worse. She wasn't sure exactly what she was going to tell Harry and Ginny, but she had plenty of time to come up with some suitable words to describe whatever she and Malfoy did together. Words that didn't begin with "f" (such as _fight_, for example).

"Harry, do you really think I don't know how to ward my own flat?" She couldn't quite keep the edge off her voice, and he looked abashed. "I helped you set up half the defenses around this house," she added. "Plus, I'm not afraid of Draco Malfoy. I would have hoped he might have matured since school, but clearly he hasn't, and he just wants to upset you. You shouldn't let him get to you. He doesn't care about me one way or the other."

Hopefully not true.

"I'm not so sure about that," Harry said, refusing to give up without a fight. Fortunately, Hermione was good at fighting, and surprise was on her side: Harry didn't even know she'd been practicing. "Something about the way he said it seemed wrong, like he thought he knew a lot about you." Harry paused, and she could practically see his next idea stampeding into his brain. She braced herself for the impact. "Wait a minute… what if he was gone all this time at some kind of Death Eater revival meeting? What if they're planning to finish what they started?"

When she got him back, she was going to slap him across the face and demand to know why she missed him so much, seeing as he was such a giant idiot. "All right, can you hear yourself right now?" she demanded, getting her thoughts back on track. "That's completely unfeasible. For starters, none of the other former Death Eaters went missing with him."

Harry thought about that before arriving at an even crazier conclusion. "What if they sent Malfoy to some kind of reprogramming facility? What if they overwrote all his memories and transformed him into a human killing machine?"

She stared at him. He stared back, and she began to wonder if everybody was insane. The more she thought about it, the more true it seemed. People always had to act normal and make sense in public-unless they were above-average crazy and couldn't even do that much - but as soon as they got into the privacy of their homes with their most trusted friends, they really let loose. It made her feel better, because she was fairly certain that she was only regular-crazy instead of the super kind. Malfoy seemed to be edging toward the super kind of crazy, but it was a controlled descent, and she was pretty sure it was because he thought it was fun and not because he couldn't stop himself.

"That only happens on television," she said, making sure her voice stayed soft and soothing. "I don't think it's even possible in real life. I mean, I guess it might be, with the right combination of conditioning and sensory deprivation, but do you honestly think that's what happened?"

"I mean, not_ exactly_ that," Harry admitted, lifting his hands to convey what words could not: his boundless and completely irrational hatred and distrust for Draco Malfoy. He had many perfectly good reasons to dislike Malfoy, of course, but those feelings put ideas into his head that were just always wrong. "But he's up to something. You weren't at the interrogation-you don't know what he's like these days. Like I said, unhinged. It's not right."

Oh, yes. If there was anyone who didn't know what Draco Malfoy was like, it was certainly Hermione. She really wanted to laugh at the irony, but Harry was clearly taking this whole thing Very Seriously. He was giving her that seriously serious look again, and he'd folded his arms across his chest.

"Being creepy isn't illegal. If you really think he's mentally ill, why don't you recommend a psych eval instead of diagnosing him yourself?" She was really curious what a psychiatrist would say about Malfoy's mental condition, actually. Super-crazy, or just the regular kind? Harry appeared to be coming back to Earth now that he'd calmed down, and she watched him think through her suggestion.

"That's not a bad idea," he said, after a moment. "I suppose this wouldn't be the first time I've overreacted about Malfoy's motivates. There's just something about that bloke that rubs me the wrong way, even now. I can't always think straight about it."

She could definitely relate to that, although she'd noticed that Harry's temper had calmed down quite a bit since he'd become a father. Hermione had heard from many sources that fatherhood changed people for the better, especially since men often struggled with growing up and acting like adults. "I know," she said. "That's why you've got me, right?"

She was mostly joking, but he nodded seriously instead of laughing. She was touched to note that Harry still thought of her as the logical one, and he would probably continue to think that until the day she finally broke the news that she and Malfoy were, like, something. Or whatever. How old was Hermione? Either six or fifteen, and she wasn't sure which anymore.

In an attempt to think like an adult again, she went back to wondering if she would even want to something-or-whatever with a person who couldn't keep up a believable guise of sanity; however, she was still convinced that he technically could. He just didn't want to, probably for a stupid reason, and that just made her want to hear him tell her that reason. She wanted to see what kind of shoddy metaphor he'd choose for it, and she wanted to watch his hands move around like a pair of startled parakeets while he tried to explain. It was funny to see it, and there was usually some little piece of truth in it, so the challenge was to find that part. She realised with a jolt that Harry was still thinking, so she hurried to put a stop to it.

"You're not still thinking about Malfoy's imaginary scheme, are you?" And, by the way, when exactly had Malfoy become the center of her whole universe? It was getting distressing. She couldn't go a day without seeing him or hearing about him or thinking about him, and she had somehow become everybody's go-to girl for Malfoy-related info. She was not his keeper. Not anymore, anyway.

"No," he said at first, but he gave up on lying when he saw the look on her face. "Well, maybe a little, but not really. I'm just keeping my eyes open, and if he shows up on my radar again, I'll recommend him for a psych eval. I promise I won't take action unless I have to," he concluded, and she nodded gratefully. "Mostly, I was thinking about what you're going to do when you quit your job."

Everyone seemed to be thinking about that except Hermione. "You'll know as soon as I do," she said, trying to sound as confident as possible.

Ginny called them in for dinner then, helpfully cutting off whatever Harry was about to say. The meal was delicious as promised, and Hermione was so happy to soak in the last few waves of family atmosphere that she barely said a word through the whole meal.

Once the food was all ground up and the table was cleared, she thanked Harry and Ginny profusely and hugged them twice each before taking the Floo back to her flat, carrying the bag of clothes she'd brought and a plastic container of leftovers.

There was a package waiting for her on the couch when she walked in, which reminded her that she needed to change the locks. Harry was right about resetting her wards, but not because she was afraid of intrusions of the Draco Malfoy kind. She just wanted those intrusions to be on her own terms, which would effectively make them not intrusions at all, but Harry didn't need to know that. It occurred to her that she should make sure he wasn't still in her home, so she walked around throwing out searching spells and calling out his name. He was gone for sure, and she went back to open the parcel.

It was accompanied by a note, which appeared at first glance to be a collaborative effort between a bossy ESL student and ee cummings:

_Break your lease._

_Read the society section_

_say it_

She was offended first by the mid-letter abandonment of grammar (he could have at least been consistent), and she knew he'd done it on purpose. He hadn't been able to mess with her for a few days, and they were both going through withdrawal. Next, she was offended by the fact that he felt comfortable issuing no less than three direct commands. Finally, he still refused to tell her what he wanted her to say. All things considered, it was the most offensive piece of written correspondence that she'd ever received, and he hadn't even bothered to sign it. How was she supposed to know who it was from?

She ran her finger along the edges affectionately, and then she folded it up neatly and slipped it into her back pocket. She opened the parcel next, and her eyes bulged half-way out of her head. It was full of Galleons, and not just a few of them. It was the biggest pile of gold she'd seen since that time she broke into Gringott's. She knew a handy spell to count them quickly, and she cast it three times before she believed it.

Malfoy had given her five thousand Galleons. 5,000. Five-zero-zero-zero.

She couldn't possibly fathom what it was all for-rent, sure, but that was a tiny portion. Even if he wanted her to break her lease, for whatever reason, this was way too much. She felt vaguely like a whore, and there was no way she was accepting all that cash. A bit dazed, she wandered into her kitchen and wrote him a note explaining that she would be taking 500 of the Galleons. Five-zero-_zero_, and that was plenty. She wasn't sure how to return 4,500 Galleons, though. Even with weight-reduction and disillusionment charms, she didn't feel comfortable sending it by owl post, but she could worry about that later. Her apartment complex had an owlery for residents, so she walked out of her flat and down the hall to send him her note. She didn't sign hers, either, but she did use proper grammar.

She returned to her flat and stood in front of the couch, staring at the glittering pile of coins. It was completely obscene. Malfoy had no shame, especially considering that he'd broken into her flat to deliver it. She supposed it wasn't really breaking in since he'd so recently lived there, but still.

A few moments later, his response arrived:

_What are you talking about?_

For a second, she felt like she deserved the additional 4,500 Galleons just for having to read that sort of crap. She scribbled her response at the bottom, asserting that he knew exactly what she was talking about, and then she sat on the couch next to the money and waited until the owl returned.

_I think you have me confused with someone else. I don't recall giving you any Galleons._

Of course, he didn't. Human memory was faulty. _Well_, she inquired, _then who sent it_?

_Good question._

Every time the owl came back, she wondered why she was owling Draco Malfoy at all if this was how he was going to act. She decided that her next note would be her last, reiterating simply that she was not taking his money.

_I have no idea what you mean. Why don't I come home, and we can talk about this in person?_

By the time she was finished reading it and tearing up the parchment, there was a knock at her door, and she rolled her eyes. By the time she was finished with her dramatic eye-roll, the door was opening, and Malfoy was walking into her flat. He belonged there, but not looking like that: he was wearing his good wizarding clothes, clean-shaven and well-groomed. There was no blood on him at all, and overall the look just wasn't working for him.

"Hello," he said. "I only knocked to be courteous, but you didn't answer the door in time." She pressed the specks of torn-up parchment into a ball and stared at him. "I see you didn't appreciate my letter."

"No, I didn't. Lying verbally is bad enough, and setting it in print is even worse."

"How do you know I'm lying? What possible basis could you have for assuming those Galleons are from me?" he asked, but his stupid grin gave him away. She could tell he was happy to see her, and it was a battle not to smile back at him. "You're being illogical, as usual."

She got off the couch and tossed the parchment bits into the rubbish bin. Once she'd walked over in front of him, she remembered what she wanted to say.

"You asked Harry about me. What were you _thinking_?" she asked, throwing up her hands, but he wouldn't stop smiling. It was so attractive that she had to look away to stay angry.

"I was wondering how you were doing," he said, shrugging. "You haven't been home for a few days."

"And how would you know that? Are you stalking me?"

"No, I've been trying to drop off a package."

"Why did it matter if I was home? Clearly, you had no problem with breaking and entering."

"I didn't have to break anything. Your wards know me."

"Only because I haven't had time to reset them yet." She was still avoiding his eyes, since she didn't want to do something stupid like jump him in the middle of a serious conversation.

"Are you really going to be living here long enough to do that?"

With her peripheral vision, she could see him adjusting his tie, which was almost enough to make her laugh out loud. She'd gotten used to seeing him in blood-stained Muggle t-shirts that came in a three-pack from Tesco, which was funny enough on its own, but it was even better now that he was back in his aristocratic uniform. It looked like a costume. She molded her face back into a more business-like expression before speaking.

"When have I given you any indication that I would be moving out?"

"Didn't you always used to tell me how sick of this place you were?"

She looked at his face at last, with his smiling white teeth, and the perfection would have made her sick if she didn't want to touch it so much. "No, that was you," she corrected. "And where are all these memories coming from? How do you remember the last month now if you didn't at the Ministry?"

"You've reminded me," he said, loosening his tie again. "I'm in control of my mind, which is more than I can say for you."

"That might be the biggest lie you've ever told me." He re-straightened his tie. "You have no self-control, especially not of your mind."

"You're misinterpreting things again, and I'll tell you why. You let your mind control _you_, instead of the other way around." He pulled his tie back off-centre, and she clenched her fists at her sides.

"No, it's both!" she said, raising her voice despite herself. "You control your mind, and-" She realised what she was saying and cut herself off with a deep, calming breath. "I can't believe we're arguing about this. You are here for one reason only: to discuss the money that you will not be giving me."

"I'm not here to discuss any such thing. I hate discussing," he said, finally dropping the grin to scowl instead.

"No, you don't. Take back all the money except five hundred Galleons," she said, gesturing to the couch. "And then go home to your fiancée." She couldn't resist mentioning Astoria, just to see what he would say.

"I haven't got one of those, and they aren't my Galleons," he said, as though both of those things should have been exceedingly obvious.

"What?" Two blatant denials of reality in one sentence were too much to process sometimes.

"I told you to do three things, and you couldn't even do the easiest one," he commented, sounding disappointed.

"What does that have to do with anything? Also, you have no right to order me around."

"Fine, Granger, your pride is getting irritating," he said, straightening his tie one last time. "I'll be in a place, when you're ready to find me. It's right where you think it is. Oh, and you still haven't said it."

Instead of responding verbally, she threw out both her hands and clenched her teeth at him. Words just weren't strong enough to convey the hostile confusion she was feeling in that moment. He didn't respond out loud, either-all he did was leave.

After he was gone, she couldn't bring herself to fix the wards. If Malfoy was this determined to give her such an outrageous sum of cash, she was done fighting it. She looked back at the heap of gold, and her mind started whirring, coming up with a million things she could do with it, and she felt herself starting to smile. Of course, none of those things would be any fun without him, which reminded her of something else.

She pulled his note out of her pocket and unfolded it, ticking off his commands in her mind. _Read the Society Section_. Suddenly, that one made sense, and she smiled even more.

There was a small pile of _Daily Prophets_ on the ground in front of her Floo, from the days she'd spent at the Potters' house, and she grabbed the most recent one and knelt on the floor, spreading it out on her lap.

It was right there on the front page, in a side-bar next to a sniffling Astoria Greengrass and a scowling Malfoy: _THE WEDDING'S OFF! Astoria 'can't stop crying,' sources say._

As an expert on lies in the news, Hermione knew that "sources say" was journalist jargon for "I made this up." She didn't care whether Astoria Greengrass was crying or not, though. In fact, she hoped Astoria would be happy again soon, because her tears did nothing for Hermione.


	15. Due Process

_"What if you could go back in time, and take all those hours of pain and darkness and replace them with something better?"_

_- Gretchen,_ Donnie Darko

**Chapter 15: Due Process**

Hermione had always been best at tackling complex problems, and she tended to treat every question like it was asking for the meaning of life. For the whole day after Malfoy left her flat, she'd been trying to think of what he wanted her to say as though he'd come up with some coded set of magic words that would get her past the door.

She finally cracked it that night, after she'd been lying in her bed in the dark for three and a half hours. When she scrolled back through as many of their conversations as she could recall, she realised that he'd asked her several times to simply repeat back what he wanted to hear. In retrospect, she was convinced that she couldn't have figured it out because she hadn't actually wanted to back then.

One factor that helped shape Hermione's personality was her lonely childhood: she didn't have any siblings, and the other children at her Muggle school thought she was weird, partially because of the weird things that happened around her sometimes. Being the brilliant kid she was, she'd quickly realised that those strange accidents only happened when her emotions got the best of her, so she learned how to control them in primary school. By the time she got her Hogwarts letter, it was too late: Hermione Granger was already and probably forever an emotional volcano. She'd suck it all in until there was an eruption, and she always tried to be alone when that happened. The only reason she ever managed to make one single friend at all was because there was, by chance, a troll there one time.

So, when this person that she didn't trust and barely knew started making her feel emotional things, she captured them and fed them into her internal reservoir, business as usual. It was only approximately half-full at the time, so she didn't even know it was happening until the eruption in Ginny's living room. Anyway, she'd figured it out at last: Malfoy wanted her to say out loud how she felt and who she truly was, and she'd have to do it even though his dismissal of those feelings would cause her legitimate emotional pain. Once the puzzle was solved, she found she could sleep.

* * *

She turned off her alarm again the next morning, but she didn't remember doing it. She only knew it was her because there wasn't anybody else sleeping in her bed anymore, and it was past one o'clock in the afternoon when she finally woke up for real. She still hadn't shown up for work or called in or quit her job or anything, and she wasn't even sure what day of the week it was, although her clock helpfully gave her the date.

She got out of bed and took a quick shower, so as to preserve ocean wildlife, because she cared as much about endangered whale species as she ever had: a reasonable amount. More than some people, less than others. When she opened her refrigerator, she had a whole lot more food than some people and also a lot less than others, or at least a different kind. For example, she had worse food than the Malfoys did, and her breakfast was both lower quality than theirs and also many hours later in the day.

She read the _Daily Prophet_, and it didn't tell her much that she didn't already know, except that Draco Malfoy was apparently a big celebrity again. After his mysterious disappearance and the unexpected end of his engagement, people suddenly cared a whole lot about what he was up to. The funniest part was that the _Prophet_ clearly hadn't the faintest clue what he actually did with his time, so they had to make things up under the veil of quotes from "sources close to the family." In this particular edition, Pansy Parkinson had jumped at the chance to be quoted in the newspaper, and she had plenty more to say to them than she'd had for Hermione.

"Draco and I have always been extremely close friends, but he's a very secretive person - I'm one of the few people that he really confides in," she'd boasted in yet another article about the end of his engagement, lying through her teeth. "I could tell you things you couldn't even print - they're not suitable for general audiences, if you catch my meaning - but it's not the sort of thing that a woman such as myself would speak about in public."

Once Hermione was finished catching up on the news, she had a lot of time to hang around her flat, and that's when she decided that she didn't hate it so much after all. It wasn't a prison or even a cage, but it was still boring. For starters, there wasn't one single thing hanging on the walls in the whole place. There once were posters and framed photographs, but they'd all been Ron's, and he'd taken them when she kicked him out. She thought about Ron for a second and hardly felt anything at all, and that was so strange that she had to stop immediately and think about something else.

She made herself presentable and went out to the antique shop in Diagon Alley, because she liked old things and used things, and she had enough money now to buy as many of them as she wanted. She stayed in there for hours, looking at everything, and her purchases filled three bags even after she'd shrunk all the objects. She went home and thought about all the things she wanted to change, and there were quite a few.

She started by using her wand to turn her white living room walls a pale blue, and then she covered them with all those little knick-knacks she bought. She took them down and rearranged them so many times that she knew exactly how each one felt in her hands, and they all felt good, and she knew she'd done something right for herself. Then, she stood in the middle of her living room and turned around a few times and smiled again and again.

She had to turn on her new second-hand lamp because it was already almost dark outside, and then she moved to the bathroom. The same colour-changing spell worked on the tile floor, so she made it sea foam green. When she was finished with that, she left those walls white and organised her medicine cabinet and all the shelves, and then she cleaned the whole thing until it sparkled. She'd found a set of seashells at the antique shop that were enchanted to make different wonderful sounds when held up to a person's ear, and she arranged them on a shelf next to a candle that smelled like key lime pie.

In the kitchen, she put out new place-mats and salt and pepper shakers and a silver tea set that she could never use, because it would wail with pain if it were filled with scalding liquid. It was just for decoration, and that was fine with her. A lot of things were. She cleaned in there, too, even under the stove and behind the refrigerator, and she liked it more every second. When she was finished, she ate dinner alone and decided she wanted a kitten. It had to be exactly the right cat, of course, and those things couldn't be rushed.

After she'd finished eating, she cleaned her dishes with her wand because she was a witch. It felt strange, but it saved time, and her hands didn't get wet. She looked down at her dry clothes, and they weren't nice enough to go see Draco Malfoy, if he was even where she thought he'd be.

She was almost completely certain that he was talking about the Red Lion, to the point where she'd be shocked if he wasn't, but he hadn't exactly given her a time. She knew he'd be there at night if he was going to be there, but that didn't necessarily mean every night. She was going to try anyway, so she changed into that same outfit she was wearing that one time when he said she cleaned up nice. It wasn't just because he said that, though. It was also because she hadn't had that outfit until right before he'd moved in with her, so it didn't have any connection whatsoever at all to any memories of the past. Her home was full of other people's pasts now instead of her own.

She tucked her wand into her pocket, left her flat and locked it, and clicked her shoes down the stairs. She went outside and back in again through the front entrance of the pub, which had almost no customers. The bartender was washing glasses and staring into space at a spot just to the right of the clock on the wall. There was a table of businessmen who'd loosened their ties and all looked vaguely angry, and they were leaning over the table and talking in hushed voices about something that they probably thought was extremely important. There was a young couple near them, shyly touching each other's hands, and the two of them probably thought that was important, too. Far away, with nobody else around him, was Draco Malfoy.

Her spine straightened when she saw him, and her hands started to shake. He was wearing Muggle clothes that she'd bought for him and holding a glass of whiskey, and he grinned with wide eyes when he saw her standing so rigidly a few steps from the door.

It was too late to change her mind - well, really it wasn't at all, but she didn't want to - so as soon as her brain started making thoughts again in the usual manner, she gave him a nod and walked over to the bar. The bartender put down his cloth and the glass he'd been wiping for much longer than any glass needed to be wiped, and he made her a vodka & tonic and took her money.

She took a long, steady drink before turning around, and Malfoy hadn't moved from his table. She took the long walk to the back of the pub and sat down across from him. He'd stopped grinning, so she decided to show her teeth to him for a change, and he looked surprised.

"What are you doing?" he asked. If he wasn't going to bother with 'hello,' then she wouldn't either.

"I was smiling," she said.

"It looks weird on you."

She didn't think smiling was that rare of a thing for her, but the time she'd spent with Malfoy had been unusually stressful. "Fine, I'll stop."

"No," he said, in a tone that suggested he might elaborate, but then he didn't. There was a long pause, and they both took a drink, and she stopped grinning anyway just to be defiant. "This is the first place you've looked for me, right?"

"Of course."

"Good."

There was another pause, because he was waiting and she was stalling. It was hard to say things when they weren't proven facts, so she hardly ever did it, which meant she didn't have any practice.

"I've figured out what you wanted me to say," she said, by way of introduction, and he frowned.

"That's cheating, Granger. You can't preface it like that, but of course _you_ would. I should've known. Now anything you say will be rendered null and void, because you can't possibly mean it."

"Sure, I can," she said. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"And then you follow it with that," he complained. "What is that thing these people say when you've already fucked up twice, and you only get three?" he asked, gesturing around to indicate the Muggles.

"Two strikes," she said.

"Yes, that."

"Fine," she said, grounding herself with both palms on the table. "How about we start over?"

"All right," he said, nodding gamely. "First we'll destroy the whole world, and then we'll make our own single-celled organisms, and when they're ready to exist on their own, we'll kill ourselves so they can have at it."

Her heart-rate was accelerating, and not in a good way. "If I'd known you were going to behave like this, I wouldn't have come here at all." She almost meant it, too.

"Three strikes," he said. The thoughts all left her head again, and that weird cold feeling spread from her brain and into her spine. He picked up his drink and downed the rest in one go, and then he stood and pushed in his chair with careful grace. She watched him, while the freeze moved steadily down and outward to fill her fingers and toes, and he didn't even look at her as he started to walk away. She looked at the wall, and her mind was clicking erratically through different thoughts that didn't make sense, like white doors and dirty couches and always the image of that corpse. This wasn't going as she'd planned, and nothing had for the longest time, and if she wanted to continue she'd really have to make peace with that. She had to accept everything that had ever happened in all of history as necessary and real.

She did accept it, she thought, in that moment. She did it so quickly that she knocked over both her drink and her chair when she stood up, and it made such a loud noise that even the businessmen spared her a derisive glance. Malfoy didn't stop walking, and he was almost to the door.

"Malfoy!" she called, throwing her dignity to the wind. If this were other people, she realised dimly, it might be misconstrued as romantic. Really, though, it was about her no longer being afraid to own what was hers. He stopped, but he didn't turn around.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," she ordered, yelling from a good five metres away. She was Making a Scene. He turned around, spreading his arms and showing his wrists in a gesture of capitulation. "I want you to come back and stay," she said as angrily as she could, as though somehow it tempered the sentiment therein if she was clearly unhappy about it. "I'm taking your money, and I will not tolerate you leaving again."

Everyone was staring at them by that point, and all conversation had come to a halt. She still hadn't picked up her chair or her glass, and so she stood proudly as though she'd knocked them over on purpose.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Malfoy said. She tipped up her chin and watched him stroll back to their table, and only then did she fix her chair.

"Are you happy now?" she demanded, righting her empty glass uselessly.

"'Happy' isn't quite the word for it," he said. "I'm satisfied."

"You'd better be." That was far too embarrassing not to have worked. On the bright side, the bartender showed up and presented a fresh drink with a knowing smile, free of charge, but maybe that wasn't a good thing at all. It meant he probably though she was being romantic, like he was witnessing the ending of some trite romantic comedy where the guy doesn't get on the plane.

It only ended there in the movies, though, and Hermione knew why: even if the lovable fop stayed in the picture, that didn't mean anything was going to work out. There were still plenty of problems to address, plenty of long and boring discussions about those same complex issues that made him almost leave in the first place, and they probably broke up anyway.

"Now that we're past that, I have something I'd like to discuss," he said. He paused even though a response was clearly unnecessary, and she nodded impatiently. "I've been considering doing something useful lately. I need you to pull a few strings so I can take the Magical Law Certification Exam."

It wasn't so much a surprise as a complete and utter shock. It was so unexpected that she could barely even process it at first. "What made you want to do that?"

"Something about seeing my own corpse made me think about what I'm doing with my life," he explained with a shrug. "In fact, I've done nothing but think about reality the whole time I've been back. I thought you'd be pleased about that."

"Well, I don't work at the Ministry anymore," she reminded him, even though she still technically did.

"Perfect," he said. "Then you can work for me."

"What?"

"I'm going to take that test and start my own practice, and I would generously like to offer you a job."

"I will certainly not work for you," she said. "I'm the one who has experience in the field and credentials, not to mention the trust of the public. You're tabloid fodder." Maybe she wouldn't have been so mean if she hadn't been so thrown-off by this turn of events, but then again, maybe she would.

"It won't be like that forever, and notoriety's about the same thing as fame in the long-run. It's all about brand recognition."

"If anything, you'd work for me," she said, rolling her eyes.

"I accept."

"Excuse me?"

"I accept your job offer," he said, as though it were obvious. "Yes, I will work for you, but I expect excellent pay and benefits."

"I don't even work anywhere! That was just to refute your idea. If we were to work together in any capacity, I would be your boss."

"And clearly there can be no reasoning with you on that matter, so that's how we'll start," he declared. "We will operate as such until I surpass you and you can no longer deny my superiority."

She took a generous sip of her new drink and looked at him wearily. "That will not occur," she informed him.

He shrugged his shoulders again. "We'll see."

"I don't even have a reason to be recommending you to the Ministry," she said, forcing him back to the initial subject. "It would look suspicious."

"I've already thought of that. You did research about me when I was missing, correct? Tell them that in your studies, you've discovered that their reasons for shutting me out were invalid. Act like you're sure it was an honest mistake, because you're such an upstanding moral figure that you can't even believe they'd do something nasty like that." He smiled indulgently at the idea. "You're only telling them so that they can correct their little _clerical error_."

"I'll think about it," she said. It was a good idea, but she didn't have to admit it to him. Even beyond helping him take the test, starting a practice with him wasn't altogether ridiculous. He had the type of legal mind she'd be looking for in a partner, and he'd be able to back her financially. He probably even had some useful connections through his family.

"You always say that instead of 'yes' when you've already made your decision," he observed.

"You always say things out loud when they're better left unspoken," she said.

"'Better' is subjective. I went most of my life without saying anything true, and now I need to make up for lost time."

She glanced at the clock. It wasn't very late, and she wasn't tired, but she had a lot of planning to do. "All right, that's enough of you for one night. I'm going home," she said. "I'll consider your ideas and contact you tomorrow."

"I can't come with you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She thought about it, and she didn't have a good reason. It wasn't like she wanted to sleep alone. "Just not tonight," she told him at last. "I have to set a few things up first."

He registered no further complaints, but he did ask if he could finish her drink since she was leaving. She pushed it into his hand and went back up to her flat, where she sat in her newly-decorated living room and set her mind on the future. She felt energized with the new idea; traveling had sounded good, but it didn't even compare to starting her own business. Without the Dept. of Magical Law Enforcement undervaluing her, there was no telling how much she could achieve.

She pictured her own future office in her mind, but it didn't look the way it should have. She cleared her mind and tried again and a third time, but there was nothing for it: no matter how she mentally rearranged the furniture in the hypothetical Law Offices of Hermione Granger, one of the chairs was full of Draco Malfoy. He'd pushed himself so far into her life that she couldn't even come up with a fantasy that didn't have him in the background somewhere. Or in the foreground, but that was a different sort of fantasy, and she wasn't going to think those kinds of thoughts right now.

She took out a notebook and a Muggle pen and stayed up late writing down all those ideas she'd had while she was wasting away behind her desk at her old job, and she even thought about asking Penny to come with her and continue as her assistant. When she was too tired to keep going and her hand was starting to hurt, she took on one more task: planning what she'd say to her boss the next day. It took her longer than she'd thought it would to get it quite right, but it was just about perfect when she was finished. She said it to herself again and again as she brushed her teeth and washed her face, and she may even have dreamed about it, because it was just so right.

* * *

Everything always takes longer than you think it will, and Hermione had already been prepared to spend an extremely long time talking to her boss. There had been points in their conversation when she was actually convinced that she'd died and gone to hell, and this office would be where she'd spend her eternity. The only reason she knew it wasn't true was because she definitely hadn't done anything bad enough to deserve that kind of torture. Also, hell didn't exist, but that was secondary. She'd been open about her desire to start her own practice, and he hadn't taken kindly to the idea at all.

For some reason, the Ministry was clearly convinced that they'd have Hermione Granger as an asset forever without having to work for it, and she couldn't imagine why. She'd finished at the top of her class in Hogwarts, and then she'd graduated first again with her Magical Law degree, and there was also that thing about defeating Voldemort. What was done was done, though, and she could only console herself now by remembering all the useful things she'd learned at the Ministry. There had to be at least one, and she'd think of it later.

She hadn't gone about it like Harry would have, though. Someone impulsive like him would have probably started the meeting with a triumphant "I quit," but Hermione had denied herself the pleasure of even saying those words inside the office. She waited until she'd closed the door before she whispered them to herself under her breath, and they sounded just as musical that way.

In fact, the first thing she'd done was get it in writing that Malfoy would be allowed to take his exam, a request that had come as a major surprise to the head of her Department. She'd had to launch into this long speech about rehabilitation, like a starry-eyed new recruit. She played up her effervescent goodness for all it was worth, and eventually he felt guilty enough to admit that she was right. He'd already said 'no' twice at that point, but Hermione was nothing if not persistent. Then, once he was already sour about having to obey the law, she'd sprung her resignation. The whole thing took hours, but she'd accomplished everything she wanted to do.

On top of that, entering her flat was a rather joyous experience now that she'd fixed it up, and she definitely didn't need to move. It felt good to dismiss one of Malfoy's orders, especially since she still had almost all of his money to put toward starting her law firm.

She considered owling Harry and Ginny about her resignation, but she was still feeling so wonderful about it that she didn't even want to talk to anybody yet. She just wanted to look at her antiques and soak in the warmth of her own personal victory, and she had a whole day to do it before she'd have to call Malfoy and tell him he was accepted. The Ministry would probably owl him anyway, so she could put it off. She was absolutely at peace on the couch, with her feet up on the coffee table, until there was a knock at the door. She couldn't decide whether she hoped it was Malfoy or not, but she knew it probably was.

"Just a minute," she called. She looked through her peephole to make sure it was him, but it wasn't. It was the opposite of Malfoy, in fact. It was Ron.

She had no idea what to think, except that she suddenly wished she'd taken Malfoy's advice and moved. She looked away, and then she looked back, and he was still there, as nervous as she'd ever seen him. She couldn't believe he had the gall to come to her home unannounced, but she just couldn't work up the anger anymore. It was the strangest thing, like she'd used it all up in her dreams. Now that he was standing in front of her with nothing but a thin plank of wood between them, she felt nothing but confusion. She opened the door, but she didn't invite him in. Instead, she opened it just wide enough to fit her whole body and kept her hand on the knob.

"Er. Hi," he said at length, cringing as though he was afraid she'd hex him at any second, which would have been perfectly accurate two months ago. She couldn't think of a single word that she wanted to say in that second. She only nodded and stared at him.

"Harry and Ginny told me what you said when you were staying with them, about how you're still upset," he said, after a long and tense silence. "I know I should have said this sooner, but I was afraid to talk to you, and Ginny said I really need to tell you now or I'll never say it, so here it goes." He took a deep and laboured breath. "I'm sorry. For everything."

He studied her face for a moment, trying to gauge her reaction. She wanted to tell him it wasn't good enough, like in her dreams, but it was so much harder in real life. Her hands went limp at her sides, and he started speaking again.

"I wish there was some way I could make it up to you, but I'm scared it's too late, and I know what you always used to say about that. You can't make things up, you know? You can't replace something in the past with something else - even if you start doing better, it's never really gone." He ran a hand through his hair, but he didn't seem lost, and she wondered if he'd prepared this speech in advance. "I'm not trying to blame things on the War, because I know I should have been over it, I guess, more like Harry and Ginny. But I just felt so useless for years without - Fred and Dumbledore and Lupin and Tonks, and all the rest." He said the names very quickly and then paused. "It seemed like everything good was gone. Do you ever feel like your own life is speeding away without you? Like you're just running around in circles, and you know what you should be doing, but you can't seem to do it?" he asked desperately.

She stood still for almost a whole minute in silence, trying to figure out why she wasn't punching him.

"You probably don't," he continued, "and that's why I wanted to be around you so much. I was hoping your control would rub off on me, but it was the opposite. I couldn't find it until after you kicked me out."

She glanced around aimlessly, avoiding his eyes. She knew now what it was like to feel every single one of those things he was trying to describe. She understood it so well that she couldn't hate him for it anymore. She had merged with the reality of mistake-making, foresight-lacking, emotion-driven human animals, and the empathy came unbidden. Ron had treated her badly and hurt her, and she deserved this apology, but he hadn't killed anybody. He hadn't even pretended to kill anybody, or broken any laws or dishes, or stolen hair from house elves, or laughed at a girl who thought her fiancé was dead. All he'd done was go around that dark horror-movie corner, even though the whole theatre was screaming not to. She could relate to that.

He deserved forgiveness, and there was a soaring feeling in her chest as she realised that she didn't want to hurt him anymore. She wondered wildly if she ever had at all, or if he was just the most convenient target. Eventually, she came to a solid decision and felt ready to express it.

"I forgive you," she said. She let out a shocked laugh directly after, looking around the empty hall with wide eyes, and bit her lip against the emotion. "It's okay."

He gave her a surprised grin, as though he could tell she really meant it this time. He stepped forward cautiously, and she allowed him to embrace her briefly before she pulled away.

"You have no idea how much that means to me," he said. Her muscles relaxed. "I wanted to tell you something, too. I mean, I thought I should tell you in person. Lavender and I are getting married."

He was having trouble making eye contact all of a sudden, and she could tell he was bracing himself for the impact, like all those times when he'd screwed up and had to apologise or ask for help. She'd yelled at him back then, but yelling was no longer the proper response. She still had that anti-gravity feeling, and she honestly felt fine about it in that moment. He and Lavender seemed to be moving pretty fast, and she wondered briefly if he'd knocked her up or something, but she didn't care what he did with his relationships anymore. He'd done something right with her for once, so he might as well be happy.

"Congratulations," she said. He smiled gratefully and nodded, shifting his weight back and forth.

"I really miss our friendship, you know." He shuffled his feet around and messed with his hair again, the way she used to hate because he only did it when he was feeling guilty about something. It wasn't so bad anymore, though. "Will you come to the wedding?"

"Send me an invitation," she said, nodding. He smiled, and she smiled back, and she could almost remember what it was like to value him as an important part of her life.

She was even feeling like they could be friends again sometime, but today was not that day. There was another long pause, and it seemed that he was starting to feel awkward about still standing there, because she clearly had nothing more to say to him. He edged a few steps back, and she didn't mind. They were both free to go, with no projected location.

"Well, that's all I came here to say. Bye, Hermione," he said. He waved awkwardly before turning to walk away. She shut the door.

After the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the hall, she began to laugh uncontrollably, and then she began to cry at the same time, and she stood like that next to her couch for a long time.


	16. The Fine Print

**Chapter 16: The Fine Print (a few weeks later)**

Draco Malfoy was not crazy.

Hermione had a piece of paper that said so, with the Ministry seal on it and everything.

Actually he had it, but he'd thought it was so funny that he had shown it to her first before anybody else. In light of recent events in his life and his mockery of an interrogation, he'd explained, they made him take a detour to St. Mungo's for a psych eval before allowing him entry to the MLCE. He'd passed that, too, but the psych eval was more impressive.

She was so pleased with his clean bill of sanity that she was thinking about putting it up on the wall in their office, like a Muggle doctor would do with her degree, and possibly incorporating it into their advertising: _Granger & Malfoy, where we can prove we aren't clinically insane!_

It occurred to her that only _Malfoy_ had proof, but for some reason nobody ever questioned her sanity. Either she'd fooled them all or she wasn't crazier than anybody else, and it didn't matter which one it was.

However, she did need to put something on the walls, either way. Their new little law office looked like a clinic minus the posters about not shaking babies, but at least the furniture was nice. She and Malfoy each had a fully-fleshed-out office, and it wasn't that they'd run out of money before they got to the lobby. They couldn't _agree_ on the lobby. So far, the only compromise they could reach was eggshell-coloured paint, and that was after half an hour of arguing about which shade of almost-white would make the best temporary fix. Hermione had never dreamed she would have such a strong opinion on the matter, but she'd never been good at picking her battles, and neither had Malfoy. They both picked "all of them."

She was staring at the eggshell paint through her open door, thinking about how linen white would have been superior, when Malfoy walked in. At 4:33 PM. To start his day.

"Morning, Granger," he called as he walked past her office. At least he was carrying a briefcase this time-for the entire first week, he'd shown up empty-handed and explained that it was "all up here," tapping his forehead just below the unkempt hair.

Then he started using gel again, to Hermione's extreme and unspoken dismay, and crafted a more professional and also boring presentation. There was something nice about being one of the few people who knew how very unprofessional he actually was, and Hermione had sort of become a fan of secrets in the past couple of months. All the same, she couldn't give up the pretense of disappointment in his irrational behavior: if she lost that, all she'd have left was attraction, and she'd have to admit to herself how similar they really were. And so she became annoyed.

"Get back here, Malfoy," she called after him. A moment later, he managed to drag himself into her doorway. "It is currently afternoon, actually."

"Right, what did I say?"

"Morning."

"I see. Well, clearly I meant afternoon," he said. "I haven't looked at a clock yet today, but the birds have mostly shut up, so it can't be morning. And the sun is still out, so it can't be night. And you're still here, and we don't officially have any clients yet, so you wouldn't have enough work for it to be evening."

Malfoy used logic like the _Kidz Bop_ children used popular music, and it was almost enough to make a person hate a thing she'd once loved dearly. "You need to start showing up before noon, at the very least."

"I can't wake up that early-you know my sleeping schedule. We've discussed this, and I've offered numerous times to return to our former living arrangement so that you can wake me up on time. While that offer is still on the table, I can't conceive of any other possible solutions."

"_Alarm clock_," she said, drawing out the words in exasperation. They had indeed discussed this issue, every single day of their new partnership so far, and she was so sick of it that she couldn't even form whole sentences about it anymore. Alarm clock. Enough said.

"Those are annoying," he complained, pulling a face. She took a deep breath and caught her fifty-second wind.

"And I've told you that you can't continue to live with me, because then we would literally never be apart, ever. We thought we hated each other back in school, but can you even imagine the levels of hatred that we could reach in that situation?"

He nodded. "You're right, but I don't mind hating each other. It was almost as much fun as tolerating each other, or whatever it is we're doing these days."

"You're just too lazy to find your own flat."

"Yes, I've admitted that," he said, with his 'serious face,' which was almost like his serious face_,_ only completely meaningless. "I _am_ too lazy, and it took a lot of courage to come clean about it. Haven't I earned the privilege of you doing it for me?"

She shook her head slowly. "No, and I'm done with this. It's not that hard to find a flat in magical or Muggle London when you have an unlimited budget. In fact, you could probably even hire someone to find you one! Why don't you do that?"

"Why don't you find someone, and I'll hire them to find me a flat?"

Hermione screamed loudly in her head, scrunching her eyes closed to hold it in. Nonetheless, that compromise sounded fantastic as opposed to ever talking about this again. "Fine. I'll find a person for you to hire to find you a flat, if you'll show up to work on time."

"As I recall, the core issue here was that you refuse to come wake me up every morning at the Manor," he said. She nodded. "Therefore, once I have my own flat, you'll still have to go over there and wake me up for work every day."

"How long are you going to punish me for kicking you out?" she asked. She realized that her hands had moved up to tug at her hair of their own accord, but she wasn't pulling it out like she used to at the Ministry. It was more like a scalp massage, which she supposed was an improvement.

"Until I get over it, so perhaps another week or so," he said, after thinking about it. "It's not that I disagree with your decision-we obviously can't live together forever. That would be weird. But the fact remains that I have an excuse to antagonise you, and I won't squander it."

"Fine. Deal," she said. "And when I find an excuse to antagonise you, I will do the same."

"I'm sure you have some saved up."

She smiled. "Yes, actually, I do."

She straightened her documents with a note of finality, and he left her office. She heard his door click shut and tried to control her curiosity, as usual: as of right now, her primary job was to complete all the paperwork involved with setting up a private law practice, which turned out to be a lot. She had to make sure their professional liability insurance was intact, that their Magical Law Society membership dues were up to date, that they were registered with all the appropriate authorities and that their accounting system was set up to regulation.

So, that was quite amazingly dull, and Malfoy's job sounded a bit more exciting: he was making Floo calls to every important connection his family had, getting the word out about their enterprise and digging up dirt on their competition. As she'd expected, his parents weren't on board with their partnership, but it wasn't as though they could do anything about it. According to Malfoy, they were still relieved enough about him being alive that they hadn't had time yet to be really angry about his engagement-ending and subsequent decision-making.

Even better, their family's wealthy friends were singing a different tune. They missed having Malfoy money thrown their way, it seemed, to the point where they were willing to call Hermione nothing less than a "Muggle-born witch" if it meant keeping their hands in the cookie jar.

Speaking of friends, Hermione had run out of those, and she was trying hard not to think about it. When she had told Harry and Ginny the identity of her future partner, they'd called her decision everything from "mind-meltingly stupid" (Ginny) to "a display of wanton disregard for your personal safety" (Harry). It was true: her mind _was_ all melted, and she was wantonly disregarding a whole lot of things, but she was feeling better about herself and her life than she had before she went and accidentally fake-killed Draco Malfoy. For one, she was okay with things not making sense.

She was hoping to get them back, though, and they'd agreed to keep their Sunday dinner plans and discuss the matter again after taking a week to consider it. Most importantly, she'd made it clear that she was not going to change her mind. It was Friday, so she left Malfoy to his Floo calls and went home early. Worst case scenario, she reasoned, he'd only burn down the office. On a scale from one to ten-where one was the most boring and ten was the most dangerous-flames weren't a bad way to go down.

* * *

After she was over the initial shock of sleeping alone, Hermione had fallen back in love with not living with Malfoy. She wasn't having breakfast with Malfoy, or coming home to Malfoy, or feeding Malfoy, or washing Malfoy's clothes, and it was even more beautiful than she remembered. In fact, she was now able to look forward to seeing him at work: her life was overflowing with Not Malfoy, and a little bit of Malfoy was a cool breeze in the summer. As opposed to Too Much Malfoy, which was being locked in a walk-in freezer.

She'd been expecting him to owl her about drinks on Saturday, which was threatening to become a routine for them. Of course, this particular habit was only a problem if a person's name ended with "Potter"-and even for them, it would only be a problem if they knew that Saturday drinks didn't actually end until Sunday morning in Hermione's bedroom. She might tell them that information in a year or maybe a decade or something, but it wasn't high on her priorities. Anyway, Malfoy had owled her, but it was to cancel their theoretical plans. He had another social engagement, he'd explained, and it was going to be very good for their business. He refused to tell her anything about it.

She was disappointed, since that meant Sunday didn't start with as much fun as it usually did. She felt even worse when she remembered that this was the big day: Harry and Ginny would be coming over to reveal their final verdict on her partnership with the enemy. She was so nervous about it she could barely boil water, much less use it to properly cook pasta, and the instant pesto sauce felt like nothing short of a miracle when it was done.

They knocked on the door at six o'clock sharp, and she answered it, and they all stared at each other. Hermione backed up, and Harry and Ginny stepped into her flat without breaking eye contact, but they didn't look angry. Instead, they looked determined. After a few scary moments of silence, the Potters exchanged a glance, and Ginny took a deep breath while Hermione held hers.

"We've had a few long discussions about this," she began, "and we have come to the conclusion that we've been a tad hypocritical."

Hermione let the air out of her lungs in disbelief.

Harry nodded. "First, we told you to trust your instincts, and then you did, and then we tried to make it our decision again."

Ginny took over once again. "And so we've decided that we will not let this affect our friendship, and we're sorry for yelling at you. We know you can take care of yourself."

"I'm not sorry for the yelling," Harry amended, avoiding eye contact. "I still think that was warranted."

"I think so, too," Ginny admitted. "But it was still presumptuous of us."

"It's fine," Hermione said, cutting them off. She felt a swoop of relief in her stomach, although she'd pretty much been banking on this outcome-as far as her friends knew, all she'd done was form a business partnership with Malfoy, which didn't sound all that dangerous to her. She knew they'd come around fairly quickly. "If I suspect him of anything foul at all, I'll come to you immediately."

"Good," said Harry, and then he paused and looked confused. "You know, it's really weird, it feels like all we ever do these days is talk about Malfoy. I'm bloody sick of it. Let's stop. Permanently."

Ginny and Hermione both laughed, even though Harry had clearly meant to make a grave and serious statement, but he eventually smiled with them. They moved to the kitchen and ate dinner, and it suddenly felt pretty good to hear about James now that Hermione had her own baby. For every boring story Ginny told, she could tell an equally boring story about printing business cards or being on hold with the Magical Patent and Trademark Office, and she was just as enthusiastic about it. If she had to make reference to Malfoy, she referred to him as "my partner," which felt all kinds of icky. She couldn't just never talk about him again, though, whether Harry wanted her to or not.

By the time the meal was over, she could feel that she had her friends back, and she had this weird thought: if they could get over the business partnership thing in a week, how long could it really take them to get over that other thing? Two weeks? Three?

The knowledge crystallised in her mind that they _would_ get over it. She would not lose them over this. They would not leave her, not for this or probably anything short of murdering their kid, and it was wonderful. Especially because Hermione had no immediate plans to take the life of James Potter.

She said goodbye to Harry in her living room, but Ginny tapped him on the shoulder and said she needed to talk to Hermione-that he should go on ahead, because it was about "girl stuff." Hermione cringed inside as Harry left and made a mental note to stop underestimating Ginny, who barely waited a minute after her husband left before getting down to business.

"I think there's more to this story with Malfoy than what you're telling us," she stated, while the last remains of a friendly smile melted off her face. "Harry thinks so, too, but in a different way-he thinks Malfoy's up to some kind of evil trickery, but I know you're too smart to fall for that. I think it has more to do with the one thing that nobody's too smart for."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said, maintaining eye contact.

Ginny paused briefly to roll her eyes, then continued full-force. "I didn't get it until this past week, but later I started thinking how I've never seen a woman cry like that when it wasn't about love-even you. You hardly cried at all about the War, but you cried about my brother."

"What exactly are you implying here?" Hermione demanded, drawing herself up to match Ginny's fury. "That Malfoy and I were carrying on some kind of secret relationship this whole time? Can't you see how ridiculous you sound?"

"I'm not asking for details," Ginny said, holding up a hand as though Hermione were eager to elaborate. "I don't want to hear them. All I know is that you were a whole lot more upset than you should've been when Malfoy disappeared, and even more when you couldn't find him yourself. Don't act like I'm wrong. You know it's true. If you two really hadn't spoken in years, you wouldn't have cared any more than Harry or I did."

Hermione felt relieved then, since Ginny had missed the mark slightly. If she and Malfoy had been having an affair before his disappearance, that was their own private dishonesty. Ginny could judge if she wanted, but she'd eventually have to accept that it was none of her business. On the other hand, setting the Auror Dept. back a few weeks and tying up key Ministry officials on the hunt for a man that Hermione was hiding? Well, that would be a matter of public safety. Oops.

"Fine," said Hermione, electing to tell a vague version of the truth. "I'll say this: Malfoy and I have had an association prior to this current arrangement, but it was far from romantic. You're right that we were in contact, but you're absolutely wrong about everything else."

Ginny narrowed her eyes, studying Hermione's expression. "Say what you like," she concluded at last. "And I'll act as surprised as Harry when you tell us there's something more going on with you two, and that's when I'll scold you for it and warn you about him and make a big fuss. I don't have the energy for it right now, but it's going to be a bad one."

Hermione started to cut her off, but Ginny held up her hand again to signal that she wasn't finished. "I'm also pretty sure we won't be telling you anything you don't already know, and I can see it's too late. Even if I'm wrong about everything now, which I don't think I am, I can't help but feel like it's only a matter of time."

"Until what?" Hermione asked, folding her arms defiantly across her chest.

"Oh, don't make me say it. Or have you already...?" She shook her head in disgust. "Never mind. Like I said, I can't stomach the details." Hermione glanced away at last, and they stood silently in her living room for a moment before Ginny relented. "But you know I love you, no matter what," she added, although her voice still sounded angry.

Hermione nodded, and Ginny pulled her into a hug. "I love you, too," she said, and then she couldn't stop herself. She'd planned to keep lying for a while longer, but it seemed a bit pointless now, especially since Ginny wasn't going to tell Harry anyway. "And you're right," she whispered.

Ginny pulled back and gave her a strange look, an uneasy mixture of self-satisfied and horrified and something else. "I knew it," she said, before stepping into the Floo.

It wasn't until Hermione went to bed that night that the relief caught up with her, but it hit hard when it came. Ginny knew the truth. Hermione's best friend knew the truth, _finally_.

Well, not the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help her god, but at least the vast majority. A suitable version, and it was all the truth that Ginny would ever need to know about the past-and the present, for that matter. For the first time in months, Hermione felt like Not a Liar, and it was an even better feeling than Not Malfoy. She slept easily, even though she was alone in her bed.

* * *

She arrived at her office at nine o'clock as usual on Monday, and a thrill still shot down her spine every time she turned on the lights. This place was hers. She built it, and she didn't feel any less accomplished in light of the Malfoy money that had gone into its creation: he owed her that, after all. She'd made the decision to save his life and nurse him back to reality in her flat, and they'd both emerged feeling like new creatures.

She could tell when she talked to him now; he seemed anxious whenever he mentioned his living situation, but aside from that his gaze was clearer when he looked at her. She could see him eyeing his office door the same way she looked at hers, with the pleasure of a person who was doing something right and honest. It was the look of a person who had achieved the success they always knew they'd have, even though it was definitely not how either of them had planned to do it.

She only had a few more bugs to work out in terms of business organization, and she finished them before breaking for lunch. Next, she placed a few calls until she found someone who was willing to help Malfoy find his own home, settling on a wizard who quoted her a good price on a share of freehold near Diagon Alley. The previous occupant had broken his lease before he'd finished paying it off, so Malfoy could move in immediately if he paid cash up-front.

She checked that off her list and waited for him to arrive, which didn't take as long as yesterday. He strolled in at 3:45, looking excited, and she met him in the lobby.

"You're early," she said, but he ignored the sarcasm.

"I thought you'd appreciate the gesture," he said. "I have some good news."

"About your social call on Saturday?"

"Yes. You remember Goyle, right?" Did she remember Goyle? Well, she'd only gone to school with him for seven years and fought him face-to-face in a war and stood in his office less than a month ago. Yes, it was safe to say that Hermione remembered Goyle. She didn't dignify it with an answer, and he didn't wait very long. "Well, once you review these documents," he gestured to his briefcase, "I think you'll find that St. Mungo's has been more than a little unjust in their handling and billing practices with regards to his father. In fact, he could be well enough to leave the house by now if they had offered him the full range of treatment options available to a person with his level of magical injury. Of course, he'd be under house arrest anyway, with a limited wand, but he wouldn't be confined to his bed."

That didn't sound good. In fact, it sounded like the opposite of the kind of first case Hermione wanted to win. "We're going to start our practice by defending a Death Eater?" she asked.

"I thought this was about justice, Granger," he said, grinning. She knew he was only saying it for her benefit. "Regardless of your personal views on Oliver Goyle, is it not the responsibility of mediwizards to heal the sick? We have Azkaban for criminals, and Minister Shacklebolt has already removed the Dementors. Isn't it a little inhumane to punish someone by denying him necessary medical attention?"

It was, and Hermione knew it, but she also knew there was another reason for this particular choice of client. "Isn't it a little dishonest to talk about justice, when all you're trying to do is settle a debt?" she asked. She was sort of guessing, but it worked. Some small part of her still wanted to know precisely _why_ Malfoy was indebted to Goyle, but it didn't seem as important in the shadow of what could be her first real case. It was too exciting to think about anything else.

"That's part of it. Greg and I aren't on the best of terms these days, in light of certain events in the recent past, and he has requested my assistance on this matter. But you've met with him, and there's no way you could tell me that family hasn't been hurt enough."

"I'll think about it," she said.

"And that means you'll do it," he observed. "I knew you would. You know right from wrong."

"You don't."

"Someday I will. Maybe I can learn it from you," he said. It almost sounded like he meant it.

"It's not that hard. You just have to try a little bit," she said. He looked away, and she was convinced. Whether he'd intended it as a barb or not, she was pretty sure he'd accidentally told the truth. "Anyway, I found a realtor. He's got a flat in mind for you to look at."

"Perfect," he said, shifting back into his usual grin. "Get him on the Floo in my office. I've got some calls to make, and then we can get started. It's our first case, Granger-get ready."

She couldn't help but smile when he said that, even after he closed his office door. She called the wizard back and transferred him to Malfoy's Floo, and then she began a new task: calling up case files from her personal directory on malpractice cases similar to Goyle's.

BREAK

As the week went by, Hermione amassed her research and Malfoy stayed locked in his office. She was pretty sure Greg Goyle had been in there at some point, because it made logical sense, but she hadn't met with him yet. That was fine, because she never wanted to see him again. It was strange, but somehow she felt even better about the situation because of her personal disdain for the man himself: it was real truth. She was showing compassion for her enemy.

She'd always felt herself devoted to justice, and she knew that every good person had to work daily to make the world a little more fair, but she'd never proved it like this.

The War was different because it was obvious. One side was a murderous lunatic, and the other was Harry Potter and everybody else. It didn't exactly take a saint to know the right thing to do in that situation. She'd done the right thing, and it had meant something, but it wasn't enough on its own. She didn't believe in the death penalty, even if absolute certainty of guilt were possible, and the proper legal measures were in place to address the crimes of Oliver Goyle. The simple fact was that prisoners were human beings who deserved ethical treatment, and she would fight to provide it.

Between her research and Malfoy's secret meetings, they didn't see each other until Friday, although she'd noticed that he'd been showing up earlier and earlier every day. He gave her a haughty look when he walked in each time, as if daring her to say something about it, and she didn't at first. She could tell it meant something to him, too, to take this case. She would never doubt again that Draco Malfoy would honour his promises.

No matter what else was wrong with him-and there was a lot -he was good for his word. That was another weird thing, in its own way; it was one thing to want to sleep with somebody, and to be doing that on a regular basis, which she was. It was a whole other thing to end up respecting that person, and now she was doing that, too. Even stranger, they hadn't argued all week long. At first, she'd thought it was because they hadn't had a chance to talk much, so she decided to test it.

He came in that morning at 10:00 AM, to her extreme shock. It was as good a time as any to test her theory, so she called him into her office as he walked through the lobby.

"Good morning, Malfoy. It really is, this time," she said, showing her approval. She couldn't tell for sure, but he may have preened a bit.

"You still haven't been helping me," he pointed out, raising his eyebrows. "But I've got my own flat now, and it's easier to wake up when I can see the sun."

"I thought Malfoy Manor had windows."

"It does, but some of them are cursed shut," he explained. "The ones in my bedroom have about two centuries of dust built up that no one can figure out how to clean, and hardly any light gets through at all."

"That sounds horrible," she said honestly.

"It is," he said, nodding. He didn't seem likely to say anything else, so she changed the subject.

"I just wanted to talk to you about the lobby. I've narrowed it down to three possible wallpaper designs." She flicked her wand to conjure them next to her, three floating squares near her shoulder. "And I like them all equally. All you have to do is pick one."

He looked at her for a second, and then he studied the samples carefully. After what felt like a very long time, he lifted his wand and vanished two of the designs. "That one will do, I suppose."

She smiled. "Good."

"Your taste still leaves something to be desired, but nothing could be worse than eggshell at this point," he said, but he was smiling too. She reckoned he was joking.

"I'll get rid of it this weekend," she promised. She made to go back to her research, but he stopped her.

"Speaking of this weekend, let's get drunk tonight."

"Not tomorrow?"

"No, _and_ tomorrow."

"I'm not getting drunk two nights in a row."

"I was exaggerating. We'll drink, but we won't get drunk."

She nodded. "Don't forget, I haven't seen your flat yet."

"Yes, we'll go there."

"All right. You're welcome, by the way," she added, although she knew better than to imagine that he'd ever thank her for something less than saving his life.

"No, _you're_ welcome," he said, and she rolled her eyes as he left her office.

Continuing to sleep with her business partner may have been a less-than-logical arrangement, but she'd already had enough logic to last her a lifetime. She was sick of it, frankly, and there was something so fundamentally illogical about Malfoy that made him feel like a good match.

Not necessarily _that_ kind of match. But actually, you know, maybe. It was too much to think about just then, since she could barely set aside enough time to get herself a kitten, but someday she'd think about it. Until then, "partnership" was a fine description. She wasn't a messed-up, war-torn, broken-hearted teenager anymore, too scared to even let herself think the words that she was dying to say. Those not-so-secret thoughts had almost killed her worse than Ron or her old job or even Voldemort, and now they were seeping out of her pores and falling through her fingertips, and she didn't mind because they were true.

She was a grown-up, and she was almost positive that she was mentally stable despite all evidence to the contrary, and Her Future felt like a real thing now. She actually had one, no matter whom she shared it with, and she also had a pretty good idea of who those people were going to be. They'd all been in the War, and they were all going to be at Ron's wedding, and those probably weren't even the worst things that would end up happening to them. Death might be, depending on certain conditions, but Hermione Granger could never believe in Hell.

_end._

* * *

_"I still believe that peace and plenty and happiness can be worked out some way. I am a fool."_

_- Kurt Vonnegut_


End file.
